


Aravel

by neko_fish



Series: Aravel [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood Magic, Canon Compliant, Dalish Origin, Gen, M/M, Non is Dalish and Proud, Slavery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-04-04 14:36:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14022399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko_fish/pseuds/neko_fish
Summary: “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”Not exactly what he was hoping to hear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My sources for Elven are from the game and from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3719848), all done by the amazing [fenxshiral](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com) and their Project Elvhen.
> 
> Non got a haircut and is more like [this](http://selfish-cat.tumblr.com/post/167652938239/i-love-my-current-quiz-but-its-a-wonder-how-no) for the Inquisition.

_The sound of metal clanking against metal._  
  
_Muffled voices._  
  
_He tries to open his eyes but the world is spinning._  
  
_With effort, he tries again._  
  
_The room is dark, lit only by the eerie glow of unnatural torches._  
  
_More voices, louder now._  
  
_Shapes hover over him and he can feel his nausea growing._  
  
_He's only distantly aware of the pain blossoming down his arms._

\--

Mahanon gasps and snaps open his eyes. His arms are restrained and there are muffled voices coming from afar. All around him is darkness lit only by dim torches and for a moment, he thinks he’s back in Tevinter.

Then he notices the cold.

Even on the worst days in that cell, it was never this cold in Tevinter.

Taking in a shuddery breath, he looks down at his arms, held in place with rope and a plank of wood. One of his gloves are missing and there’s a faint glow emitting from his palm. Suddenly, the green crackles and sparks. Letting out a gasp, he turns away to shield his eyes from the brightness.

When it dies down, eyebrows furrowing, he takes a closer look to find a jagged green line running down the center of his hand, giving off that unnatural glow. All around him, the guards have drawn their swords as if they're expecting something from him.

Then the door slams open.

Two women enter. The one with the short black hair leans in close and hisses, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now. The conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

Not exactly what he was hoping to hear. He knows a bad situation when he sees one and remains quiet. Whatever happened must’ve been bad. He waits and tries to process everything.

The woman grabs his ungloved hand and demands, “Explain _this_.”

Incidentally, that's something he'd also like to know.

“Wait, what you said just now,” he says, backtracking. “What do you mean everyone's dead?”

“I mean everyone in the vicinity of the conclave is gone,” she grits out. “Now answer the question.”

His mind is reeling, thinking back to the camp he'd set up outside the conclave with his travel companions, representatives from other clans. He remembers the qunari camp nearby and the surface dwarves. They didn't get to speak much, but there was a mutual understanding of why they were all there. Adaar and Cadash, his mind supplies.

All gone?

Frowning, he looks his interrogator in the eye and says, “I don't know what that is or how it got there.”

“You’re lying!” the woman snaps, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him up with surprising strength.

“We need him, Cassandra!” the redhead says, pulling the other back.

Dropping back down to the floor, Mahanon exhales slowly and forces himself to remain still. The only way he could make this worse is by acting out in a room full of hostile humans.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the redhead asks, only marginally more composed than 'Cassandra’.

"You’d believe my word?” he asks skeptically.

“That would depend on your word, wouldn't it?”

Not very promising.

He furrows his brows in concentration, finally given a moment to find his bearings. Thinking back, he recalls that dim place, lit only by unnatural lights. “I remember running, things were chasing me, and then...a woman?”

The redhead steps towards him with a frown. “A woman?”

“She reached out to me, but then…”

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” Cassandra says, suddenly calm. “I will take him to the rift.”

That sounds about as bleak as anything that's been said to him so far.

The woman undoes the wooden plank around his wrists. He blinks. Is he being released? Or is he about to get thrown off a cliff?

“What _did_ happen?” he asks in a last ditch attempt to gather information.

Cassandra hauls him to his feel and scowls. “It will be easier to show you.”

Quietly, he allows himself to be dragged out the door by the arm.

Momentarily blinded by the sudden brightness, he holds his bound hands up to shield his eyes. When he turns back around, he can only gape at the swirling green maw in the sky, the colour not unlike the mark on his hand.

That can't be good.

“We call it the Breach,” Cassandra explains. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the conclave.”

Mahanon glances over warily. “That looks more like magic to me.”

“Perhaps it was,” she replies, eyeing him warily as if he just gave away a secret. “Either way, unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

Suddenly, the rift sputters and the mark on his hair flares up in response. He lets out a yell and hunches over in pain. There's so much energy in the mark it feels like holding lightning in his hand, each throb running down old scars, seeming to pull his arms apart at the seams.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads. And it _is_ killing you,” Cassandra tells him, confirming his thoughts. “It may be the key to stopping this but there isn’t much time.”

"Stopping this? How?” he asks through gritted teeth. The pain is starting to subside, but there's a thrumming in his arm that makes him suspect that it's merely building up for another wave.

Cassandra looks up, her eyes narrowing. “By closing the Breach. Whether that’s possible is something we’ll discover shortly. It is our only chance, however, and yours.”

He arches a brow. “You think I did this? To myself?” While she hasn't come at him with the usual slurs yet, it's clear she takes him for an idiot.

“ _Someone_ did, and you are our only suspect. You wish to prove your innocence? This is the only way.”

Mahanon scowls, the pain making difficult to keep up a neutral front. “And here I had such high hopes for your justice system.”

The two of them exchange mutually disapproving glares before Cassandra lets out a disgruntled noise and leads him away.

As they walk, he can feel the hostility emanating from the onlookers and walks a little closer to the woman. It wouldn't be the first account of an elf being stoned to death by an angry mob. Seeing his discomfort, Cassandra explains, “They have decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry.”

That is in no way reassuring.

The _Most_ Holy. With a superlative like that, she must be one of the ladies with the large, unwieldy hats. Keeper Deshanna may have tried to give him an overview on the Chantry hierarchy at some point but he's always been better at working with his hands than memorizing unnecessary things—like the monikers of people who worship a burning woman.

When they pass the first gate, Cassandra takes out a knife and cuts through the rope around his wrists. “There will be a trial. I can promise no more.”

He quickly retracts his arms and pulls the sleeve down over his ungloved hand protectively. She gives him a look but trudges on instead. They walk through a gate and up a snowy path when his hand decides to act up again.

Gripping his arm close to his chest, he blinks back the tears and takes in a shaky breath as Cassandra hauls him back to his feet. “The pulses are coming faster now.”

As if that was something he could've overlooked. Mahanon spares her a withering look. She ignores him.

They're making good time to wherever they're headed towards when the bridge they're crossing is hit and crumbles under their feet. Falling down to the broken stream below, Mahanon pushes himself up onto his elbows in a daze.

Another green fireball falls and crashes nearby. To his horror, demons begin clawing their way out of the green light. To his side, Cassandra is already back up on her feet with her sword drawn as though she _didn’t_ just tumble down the same bridge he did. “Stay behind me!”

The woman is hardy, he'll give her that.

While she attacks the demons, he glances around for some way to defend himself should the warrior fail. A glimmer catches his eye and he turns to see a smashed crate and a pair of daggers lying unattended on the ice.

“That will do,” he mutters to himself, pleased. Scooping them up, he tosses one in the air and hums. Iron blade, canine leather grip, not the most well-made but it's better than nothing.

One of the demons notice him and begins moving his way. Ready, he charges forward to meet it. As it brings its claws up for an attack, he ducks and throws one of his blades into its face. It shrieks. Taking advantage of the opening, he swings up, slashing its throat and leaps back, pulling his other dagger back out with an upward yank, the blade cutting through tainted sinew and bone.

Sensing movement behind him, Mahanon whirls around only to have his dagger stopped by a sword. Behind her, the remains of the Shade lies motionless on the ice. “Drop your weapon. _Now_!”

Mahanon studies her quickly. If he wanted to, he could probably get in a cut to her neck before she can slice him in two. But then what? There's still the matter of the giant hole in the sky trying to kill him and _not_ starting another exalted march on his people.

Lowering his blades slowly in surrender, he sighs, “Fine, have it your way.”

Cassandra huffs and sheaths her sword. “Wait, I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless. I should remember you did not attempt to run.”

His only saving grace, evidently.

They continue fighting their way through demons and up to the top of a flight of stairs where he can hear fighting in the distance.

Joining in the battle around a smaller rift, he sees a peculiar pair: a dwarf whose beard clearly didn't agree with the cold and migrated south, and an elf whose hair was clearly eaten by the dwarf’s chest.

When the demons are slain, the elf takes him by the hand and holds it up to the rift. Mahanon grits his teeth as energy suddenly spews from his hand. The rift disappears into thin air and he clutches his hand close to his chest, eyes wide.

Is this what mages feel like?

“What did you do?” he asks when his voice returns to him. Although it's nowhere near as painful as when the Breach acts up, his arm is still thrumming uncomfortably with energy.

The elf smiles candidly. “ _I_ did nothing. The credit is yours.”

He examines the elf, there's something off about him that makes the back of his neck prickle. With half a wolf mandible hanging around his neck and clothes more tattered than any of the clan’s, the man gives off the air of wisdom and age. There's a look in his eye that reminds him of a hunter who's had to look their possessed keeper in the eye as they cut them down.

Mahanon quickly loses that train of thought when the explanation the man offers completely goes over his head. Luckily, the dwarf steps in and says, “And here I thought we'd be ass-deep in demons forever.”

Finally. A normal person.

The dwarf shoots him a knowing grin. He looks friendly and approachable. Probably a great liar. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, fellow prisoner, and occasional unwelcome tagalong,” he introduces himself, giving Cassandra a wink.

Brave man.

Cassandra lets out a disgusted noise and walks away.

Varric is quickly rising to the top of his list of ‘favourite strangers met after a near death experience’.

The elf introduces himself as Solas and Varric explains that he was the one who kept the mark from killing him in his sleep. Furrowing his brows and looking at the jagged green line on his palm, Mahanon asks, “How are you so knowledgeable about this kind of thing?”

Solas takes his suspicion in stride. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage, though I suspect that last statement makes little difference to you. You are Dalish, are you not?”

He arches his brow, waiting to see where this conversation will go. “And if I am?”

“I have wandered many roads in my time and have crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion,” the elf says.

There are so many points he wants to bring up. “In your time? How long have you been travelling?”

“Long enough to have met all kinds on the road,” Solas answers.

The path to trust and mutual respect is rarely built on vagueness and ambiguity, but Mahanon doesn't press the matter. “Alright. What did you mean by 'crossed paths’?”

At this, the elf has no hesitation explaining, “I mean I offered to share knowledge only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

Ah, one of _those_ elves then.

Tapping a finger against his cheek, he replies dryly, “Hmm, yes, well, we tend to have mixed experiences with outsiders. Sometimes the outsider brings cake, but more often than not, they take what little cake we have left. After a while, you get protective over your cake.”

Solas looks like he's about to retort when his hand lets out a crackle to remind them of its presence. Narrowing his eyes, the elf takes a step towards where Cassandra is waiting. “We must hurry before the mark consumes you.”

Glad to drop the conversation, he follows after the two. Behind him, Varric lets out soft chuckle, “The outsider giveth and taketh the cake away, hmm? I'll have to remember that one.”

He shrugs. “Honestly, it's more like giveth crumbs and taketh everything you love and hold dear but who's keeping score?”

\--

After climbing up another leg of the mountain, he seals another small rift and they find themselves on another bridge. Mahanon spares a glance down over the side and hopes this one doesn't crumble away. The fall doesn't look survivable. Towards the center of the bridge, the redhead from earlier is arguing with a Chantry man at a desk and Cassandra quickly goes to join her.

He gets distracted by the desk. It's an older heavy set desk with no particularly special features to it other than its very existence. He's never seen something quite as ridiculously stupid and human as a desk on a bridge. Who moved it there? Where did they move it from? Did they frantically build it as demons poured from the sky?

“Admiring the desk, Freckles?” Varric asks. “Weird, isn’t it?”

Mahanon arches a brow, resisting the urge to hide his face. “Freckles?”

Their conversation is interrupted when the Chantry man points at him and yells, “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution!”

To his surprise, Cassandra steps in.

The three of them continue to bicker until the two women turn to him and ask, “How do _you_ think we should proceed?”

He looks from one human to the other, blinking. “You're asking _me_ what _I_ think? I say we should charge.”

If he's going to die, he'd rather die in the battlefield than stand through some pretend trial and have his corpse paraded around a city full of humans.

\--

They find the soldiers fighting outside of their camp. Together, they slay a wave of Shades and Wraiths only to have more demons spew out of the rift. Gritting his teeth, he continues fighting—if only to gather more witnesses for his good albeit forced deeds.

When the last of the demons are defeated, the rift hovers ominously, looking ready to bring more out.

“Quickly, close it!”

He raises his hand and watches the energy latch onto the portal. The rift whirls and hums dangerously and then disappears with a poof.

Sealing rifts _hurts_ , Mahanon comes to realize, pulling his sleeve down and shaking the numbness out of his fingers. He glances up at the sky and wonders what his odds of survival are when it comes time to deal with the big one.

After that rift, the rest of the path to the ruins is clear. He swallows hard when he sees the extent of the damage. The entire area's been completely flattened, the Temple of Sacred Ashes has disappeared, leaving only burning corpses and scattered bones in its wake.

The smell of burning flesh makes him gag and shudder.

“I survived _this_?” he asks in disbelief, blinking away the specks of darkness threatening to take his consciousness.

“Yeah, and this is only the outskirts of the blast. You survived the worst of it,” Varric tells him as they follow Cassandra into the remains of the temple where Leliana finds them. “See that crater in there? That was you.”

“How did I survive?” Mahanon looks down at his hands, expecting them to go transparent at any moment. “Are you _sure_ I survived?”

Varric gives him a sympathetic pat on the back. “You sure did. Chuckles even checked to make sure you weren't a spirit or anything.”

“They say you walked out of the Fade with a woman in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was,” Cassandra explains. “But for now, let us focus on closing the Breach.”

Looking up from the railing, he stares at the churning green mass. “Well, unless someone finds me a ladder, I don't think I'll be able to reach that thing.”

“No, the rift down there was the first,” Solas tells him. “Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

Mahanon nods. “Alright. Let's head down there then.”

\--

_A dim place lit by no sun._

_Spiders, skittering._

_Fleeing._

_A hand._

_“Hurry!”_

\--

His head is pounding and his arm is seizing up when he comes to. Blinking blearily, he tries to recall his dream. It wasn't his usual Tevinter one. He knows the sour aftertaste of that one all too well.

While his other dream brought haziness and pain, this was all panic and desperation.

Evidently, he's adding to his repertoire.

Looking up at the unfamiliar ceiling and its wooden rafter, Mahanon notices sunlight to his side and a presence entering the room.

Nothing ever good happens when he passes out.

Quickly trying to piece his memory back together, he waits for a moment before sitting up. There's an audible gasp and something clatters to the ground.

Mahanon looks over to find an elven woman fumbling for the box she dropped. “I didn't know you were awake! I swear!”

He arches a brow. “Is this another prison?”

The woman looks confused. “No? I mean, I don't think so? You're back at Haven. They say you saved us! The Breach stopped growing just like the mark on your hand! It's all anyone's talked about for the last three days!”

She quickly steps back out of the door to inform Cassandra.

Still sitting in bed, he looks down at his hand and notices that he's in a new set of clothes.

And boots.

Brows furrowing, he yanks them off and tosses them to the ground. He'll never understand humans' obsession with covering their feet.  Wiggling his freed toes, he gets out of bed to explore the room.

It's a rustic cabin that was clearly well lived in. There are furs lining the walls and books stacked on the shelves and alcohol strewn all about the room. He finds his clothes neatly stacked on the chair and happily slips out of the grey outfit they put him in.

Yanking his pants back up and shirt down, Mahanon pauses to study his arms. The mark isn't crackling angrily anymore but it remains a constant on his palm, and if he stills, he can feel the thrumming of whatever Fade energy it's made of running through his arm.

He runs a finger down the old scars down his arms and flexes his forearm to check for pain and weakness. Whoever was tasked with changing his clothes would've seen the scars, he thinks as he goes through his routine stretches, and what one human knows, the rest of the camp will soon learn. Ignoring that thought, he continues his check. There's a mild tremor in his left hand, but that could be an after effect of using the mark. He runs a hand over the glowing cut one more time before slipping his coat and his gloves back on.

Fully dressed, he continues exploring the room, noticing that everything even remotely sharp had been removed. He briefly contemplates fashioning a weapon for himself but that would probably be considered ill will on his part and settles for patting his coat down to make sure his lock picks and blades were still tucked away in the seams.

As he finishes up in the room, Mahanon’s ears perk up. The sound of voices keeps getting louder and eventually, it sounds like a crowd's gathered outside the cabin.

Mahanon frowns. The people don't sound angry, but unable to peek out, he can only assume the worst has happened no matter what that woman from earlier said. Quickly looking around the room again, he notices the window. Unlike Tevinter, there are no wards or glyphs protecting it.

Pushing the window open, he pokes his head out to see a stack of firewood blocking the crowd’s view of him.

Not wanting to waste any more time, he climbs out.


	2. Chapter 2

Out the window, Mahanon sneaks around behind a tree and behind a neighbouring cabin to the back corner where climbs up a boulder to the wooden fence. Staying low, he studies the crowd, gathered and waiting for him to emerge. There aren't any torches or pitchforks, but on principle, he makes it a point to stay away from human mobs.

Backing up to the edge of the fence, he finds a gap and slips through it, landing behind another hut. The area up here is quieter and he resists the urge to pick the elfroot growing around the side of the cabin and continues moving towards the chantry, hoping to gather more information before making his next move.

Continuing to move upwards, he ducks behind tent after tent until he finds himself standing at the side of the chantry. There aren't any windows in the stone structure, leaving him no choice but to enter through the front door.

Mahanon pokes his head around the corner, wondering how he'll get past the group of Chanty people gathered in front.

“What do you think you're doing?”

He gives a start and skitters back a few paces when a familiar figure suddenly appears in front of him. Looking up, he shrugs helplessly at Cassandra. “Finding my way to the chantry?”

Sparing a moment to glance down at his bare feet, she lets out a skeptical noise and nods towards the building. “You found it,” she says, surprisingly placid. “Come. We were waiting for you anyway.”

Mahanon arches a brow but follows her through the crowd where he hears, “Walk in peace, Herald of Andraste.”

Doing a double take, he steps inside the stone building and watches the door shut behind him, muffling all the outside noise.

Herald of Andraste?

They must be talking about Cassandra.

He thought she was called a ‘Seeker’, but people can have more than one title, can't they?

Is it part of the Chantry hierarchy? Whatever it is, it sounds like something that comes with an awfully large hat.

As they approach the back room, he can hear Roderick yelling and protesting his existence again and other people arguing back. He looks over at Cassandra and wonders if he's supposed to follow her inside.

Paying no heed to his discomfort, she throws open the door and marches in.

Roderick immediately notices him and shouts, “There he is! Chain him!”

He tenses but Cassandra waves the guards off. “Disregard that and leave us. And you,” she says, nodding at him and making him feel like a child caught napping in an aravel, “get over here.”

\--

There are many things he expected to be.

A craftsman.

Dead.

A dead slave.

A dead escaped slave.

A hunter.

A spy.

Dead.

Never in his life did he ever expect 'Herald of Andraste’.

Never in his life did he ever _want_ 'Herald of Andraste’.

“It's quite the title, isn't it? How do you feel about that?” Cullen asks with a half-smile. He seems a decent enough sort but they've only met twice and Mahanon wouldn't be surprised if that handsome face was hiding a darker past that earned him his position here.

As for the title, as nice as it is to not be the primary suspect of a mass killing anymore, he's not entirely sure how to navigate this turn of events.

“I'll pass, thanks.”

Cassandra shakes her head. “That is not for you to decide.”

“Can I give it to someone as a gift then?” he asks incredulously. “I'm _Dalish_ , I don't believe in your gods. I just want to go home.”

At his words, he can feel a new wave of disapproval hit him but holds his ground. “Go home?” Cassandra asks. “The Breach is still in the sky. We must try to close it again, and you are the key to doing it.”

He glances down from his hand to the hefty tome the Seeker pulled out to slam on the table. Sure, it helped chase Roderick away, but he has no interest in joining some Chantry army. “And if I refuse?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral.

“You can go if you wish,” Leliana, says a little too casually and a little too quickly.

“Be that as it may, you should know that while some believe you're chosen, many still think you're guilty. The Inquisition can only protect you if you're with us,” Cassandra says.

Mahanon frowns. “I don't need protection. I can fight. Just give me my daggers back.”

Leliana arches a brow. “And your people? We are the only thing standing between the Chantry and the elves.”

His blood goes cold.

“Help us fix this before things get worse,” Cassandra tries to appeal, her words a few seconds too late.

“Help?” he asks incredulously in a low voice. “There's a difference between 'helping’ and 'threatened into obedience’, Seeker.”

Josephine quickly tries to placate him, “Herald, she didn't mean—”

“I don't believe in your gods,” Mahanon repeats more forcefully. “I am a Dalish elf and I belong to the People, who are in danger of _your_ Chantry as you so kindly pointed out. If anything, I am more a prisoner of your burning woman than a herald. Just because you don't have me in a collar and chains does not mean they're not there. Tell me what I must do in your little war to spare my people and it shall be done.”

None of the advisors meet his eyes except for Leliana, who merely watches him coolly from underneath her hood.

Narrowing his eyes, he grits out, “Now, if you have nothing further threats to throw at me, I wish to rest since stopping the _fucking_ _Breach_ wasn't enough for you shems. Is that alright, _masters_?”

The hunters in his clan would be proud of him overcoming more than half a lifetime of training in manners and diplomacy.

To his surprise, no one yells at him for being insolent. No one shackles him up and throws him in a cell. It’s dead silent and no one tries to stop him when he storms out the room.

Cloaking himself, he leaves the chantry with stealth, snaking around the crowd of humans gathered at the doors to make his way down the hill. Going past the wooden cabin he woke up in, Mahanon walks through the gates to the snowy clearing the soldiers are using as training grounds. He keeps going until he's well alone and out of hearing range before letting out a shout.

“ _Fenhedis_!” Taking the hidden knife out of his coat seams, he throws it at a tree, embedding it into the trunk.

It takes a moment and every profanity he knows to retrieve the knife and he continues stomping through the snow until he comes across an empty cabin away from the main camp. Curious and wanting a place to hide, he picks the lock and walks inside.

The inside is a mess with alcohol and bottles of colourful liquids strewn about. It doesn't take much work to get the fireplace relit, instantly filling the room with light and warmth. He takes a moment to enjoy the fire before wandering over to the desk where a stack of papers sits.

Taking a few pages, Mahanon paces the floor, squinting at the scribbles written down, hoping to find something helpful. The words come slowly to him. He's not the most well-read person in the clan and it's been a long time since he last practiced his letters. But after a moment of struggle, he deciphers the pages to be potion recipes and decides to keep them.

He doesn't know how long he's been wandering back and forth aimlessly but he's snapped out of his stupor by a knock at the door. Instantly on alert, he freezes and waits.

“Hey, Freckles, it's just me. Please don't attack,” comes Varric’s voice. “I brought you a peace offering.”

Mahanon exhales and gets up to unlatch the door to find the dwarf holding a pair of daggers. “Varric.”

“Dwarven crafts just for you. Fine dwarven crafts, direct from Orzammar,” Varric tells him with a chuckle, handing the daggers over.

Arching a brow in bemusement, he looks down at the blades. “I wouldn't call this level of crafting 'fine’.”

Varric shakes his head. “No, it's because I knew this guy in Denerim who—ah, never mind. I see you've commandeered this nice abandoned hut in the middle of nowhere.”

He shrugs. “It was either this or set up camp in the snow. That isn't entirely out of the picture yet if it means I can get further away from this _Inquisition_.”

“Those guys must've really rubbed you the wrong way, huh?” the dwarf says sympathetically. “They take your cake?”

Huffing at the reference to his earlier comment, Mahanon nods. “Took my cake and threatened to invite the Chantry to take all of my people's desserts too.”

Wincing, Varric frowns. “Shit. You know, I admire your diplomacy, Freckles.”

“I don’t know if I was being diplomatic, exactly,” he mutters grimly. “I probably said a lot of things I shouldn’t have.”

“Oh well, that bunch are more bark than bite anyway. I can personally attest to that.” Varric says lightly, spreading his arms. “And you left with everything still intact, so that's already a point in your favour. Hawke probably would've burned a crude drawing into the table and ran out with a zingy one-liner, courtesy of yours truly. Considering that, you’re practically a saint.”

He perks up, eager for the distraction. “Yes, that's where I know your name from. _Tales of the Champion_.”

“The Dalish got their hands on one of my books? Your keeper was okay with that?”

“Not exactly, but my cousin managed to buy a copy from a merchant and made a couple of us sit through her readings. Her impressions were terrible,” Mahanon explains, lips curling up faintly at the memory. “What happened to your friends? Where are they now?”

As Varric tells his stories, all Mahanon can think of is how he's going to rub this in Ellana’s face when he returns.

 _If_ he survives to return.

\--

It's well into the day when Varric leaves. Significantly calmer after talking to the dwarf and listening to his stories, he's thinking about going out to hunt when there's another knock at the door.

Getting up and opening it this time, he finds an elven servant standing there with a bowl of stew. “Lady Montilyet was afraid you'd get hungry out here, Your Worship. She would also like to request permission to visit.”

A little warily, Mahanon accepts the bowl and replies, “If she brings me a bow and a whittling knife I'll allow it.”

The servant bows and leaves to relay the message.

He brings the bowl up to his nose and gives it a sniff. Nothing seems wrong with it and they wouldn't benefit from his death when his hand is apparently the key to their giant problem in the sky, but he's not willing to take any chances.

Setting it down on an empty shelf away from the many stacks of papers and vials, he leaves the cabin and returns minutes later with a nug in his arms. He lowers the creature to the floor and pours a spoonful of stew in front of it.

The nug squeals excitedly and licks the ground clean in a matter of seconds.

Mahanon waits.

Nothing.

He waits a little longer.

Still nothing.

Glancing down at the bowl, he shrugs and starts eating. Suddenly, there's a nudge at his leg and he sees the nug staring up at him, alive and conscious and waiting for more.

“Fine, since it was your life at stake,” Mahanon mutters, pouring the creature another helping.

\--

The nug refuses to leave his side after that. Glancing back as he trudges through the snow, he sees the pink little creature following closely behind, squealing happily.

He doesn't know how to get rid of it. It won't leave and having used it as a food tester, he'd feel bad killing it now.

Walking through the trees, he keeps his eyes to the ground as he follows the ram’s tracks. The ram soon comes into sight and Mahanon twirls the daggers in his hands, ready to hunt. It'd be easier to hunt with a bow, but Josephine hasn't shown up with his request yet so he’s resolved to make do with what he has.

Suddenly, the nug lets out an alarmed squeal and runs away into the bushes. Ears prickling, Mahanon whirls around and sends a dagger flying into the chest of an archer who’d been waiting behind a nearby tree. There's a glint of metal and he ducks down to parry a blow from a sword.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a knife and swings it up, slicing into the warrior's throat. There's another glint somewhere in the trees, but before he can react, there's a soft sound of arrow hitting armour and the presence disappears.

Eyes narrowed, Mahanon catches a glimpse of an Inquisition scout leaping off a tree. Despite their disagreement, it seems the spymaster has no intention of letting him die just yet.

The atmosphere of the forest returns to normal and the nug comes hopping back out, looking up at him with its large, curious black eyes.

Sure, he can't get the clan’s halla to like him, but apparently this pink little thing with its weird finger toes does.

He smiles and crouches down to let it smell his fingers. “I think I'll call you Nugget.”

\--

The sun is setting when Josephine comes by, looking very out of place in her pristine dress of blue and gold. “Master Lavellan,” she greets with a polite smile. “I have brought the items you requested.”

Master Lavellan doesn't seem entirely appropriate, but it's better than Herald of Andraste.

He lets her in and she gives a start at the sight of meat roasting over the fire. “Oh, you're cooking!”

“I caught a ram earlier,” he explains, examining the bow she brought. “I'd offer you some but it's probably pretty bland. Not very many herbs grow in the snow and I don't trust whatever's in the bottles here.”

“Probably for the best. This belonged to our late alchemist,” she tells him. “I wanted to apologize for what was said to you earlier.”

Mahanon waves her off. “No need. The words didn't come from you.”

Fingers gripping at her dress, Josephine frowns. “Even so. I want to apologize as the ambassador of the Inquisition. We are the ones asking for your help. The last thing we have any right to be doing is insinuate that harm may befall your people.”

In a way, she reminds him of Felix in her earnestness. He sighs. “You're certainly more civil than your counterparts.”

Josephine smiles. “You are kind to say so. Despite what you may think, Master Lavellan, they are not usually like this. As the right and left hands of Divine Justinia, they must be mourning her loss, though that does not excuse their behaviour.” She pauses. “If you don’t mind me asking, did you lose anyone at the conclave?”

“My travel companions. Mine was not the only clan that thought to send people,” he tells her quietly. “If what they say is true, it is unlikely any of them survived.”

“Please accept my condolences. These must be especially trying times for you as well,” Josephine replies, eyes lowering. “Perhaps you would like to send a letter back to your clan to inform them of all that has happened? If you'd like one transcribed for you, you can find me in my office any time.”

Mahanon bites back his sarcastic response about entering the chantry and catching on fire, a fitting fate for the herald of their Andraste. This woman is here reaching out to him; it wouldn't do to burn all his bridges just yet. “Thank you, I will think about what to send.”

\--

"...and so, I will stay a little longer to help seal this Breach. Please send word of the fallen to their clans so that their losses may be honoured. My thoughts are with the People. Mahanon.”

Josephine's pen stops with a decisive dot.

He gets up from his seat by the door and asks, “May I sign it?”

“Of course! Please!”

She hands the board over and stifles a gasp when he dips a finger into the ink. At the bottom of the page, he draws one of the clan’s trail markers.

_Potential danger ahead. Remain cautious._

Taking it in stride even when he wipes the ink off on his pants, Josephine smiles. “To be honest, I did not expect your letter to reflect on us so well.”

“I'm simply returning the favour, Ambassador,” Mahanon answers easily. He also suspects he would've been censored if he tried starting his message with 'Help, I have been taken prisoner by the Chantry’.

Leaving the office, he speeds out of the chantry. Outside, where Leliana’s tent is set up, he overhears her praying angrily at her Maker and tries to sneak past before she notices his presence.

“Master Lavellan, a word?”

He stifles a groan and turns around. “What is it?”

“Would you consider staying away from the woods for a little while?” Leliana asks.

“No,” he answers curtly. “Was there anything else?”

She sighs, schooling her face into something softer. “I also wanted to apologize for my words yesterday. It was unworthy. It will not happen again.”

Arching a brow, Mahanon asks, “You didn’t seem particularly remorseful yesterday. Why the sudden change of heart?”

“They were words spoken in a moment of anger. When I think of the two people I most look up to, they would not have approved,” Leliana replies.

“And your own conscience?”

She doesn't answer.

“Silent, then?”

“We don't all have the luxury of obeying our conscience at every turn. I have to think about what's best for the Inquisition,” she says a little stiffly.

Mahanon purses his lips and asks tentatively, “Isn't that the kind of thinking that can lead a person to threaten an entire people?”

Leliana blinks. “I did not think of it like that. I should be more mindful of these things.” She sighs, “It's true that your people have been placed in a precarious position but the Chantry is still too fragmented to even think about making a move on the elves. Maker willing, we will do our best to keep it that way.”

He doesn’t understand why the Maker needs to be included in this, but he nods slowly, keeping his face neutral. “I appreciate it.”

The spymaster’s lips curl up in amusement he doesn't understand. “You know, the Hero of Ferelden gave me that exact same look when we first met.”

“The Hero of Ferelden? Wasn't she an elf?”

“From the Denerim alienage, yes,” Leliana says, eyes wistful. “No matter what your impression of me is, I have nothing against elves. In fact, she is one of the two people I admire. The other was Divine Justinia.”

Mahanon sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “I'm sorry for your loss. I understand you two were close.”

He may not like her, but he can sympathize with her loss.

At this, she genuinely softens. “Thank you. We may not become friends in the long run, but I hope we will learn to trust one another in these dire times.”

While she may have sent scouts to keep him safe from assassins, he's having trouble associating her with 'trust'.

“We'll see.”

Leliana’s lips curl up slightly. “Fair enough. As a first step, how about an assignment? I may have a lead.”

\--

For all that he loves the wilderness, the Hinterlands is a mess he could've done without.

He offers to go alone but is quickly shot down and told that the trio from Haven would be accompanying him. The trip there and the first few days are spent in surprisingly companionable silence with the four of them possibly overwhelmed by the vastness of the land.

After finding Mother Giselle amidst the chaos of mages and templars, they decide to stop in a tavern for a quick meal and a break only to have the owner shake his head when he and Solas enter first. “We don't serve your kind here.”

Solas immediately turns to him and says, “It seems he does not like your kind.”

“I _believe_ he was also referring to you,” Mahanon answers easily. “It hardly makes a difference to them whether you have vallaslin or not.”

With a conceding nod, Solas switches over to surprisingly fluent Elven. “Perhaps it's the ears then?”

“But they're so charming,” he answers, switching languages himself and wiggling his ears in response. “Humans have such flat, boring ears.”

“Stop your muttering before I come over and toss you out myself!” the shopkeeper shouts, losing his patience.

Solas shrugs. “I suppose we should find a meal elsewhere.”

Mahanon nods. “Yes, I suppose we should. This guy can go fuck a forest.”

To his surprise, the other elf throws his head back and laughs. “I did not think they still used that phrase.”

They step back nonchalantly and exit the premise, leaving a seething Cassandra to tell the man off for his unknowing act of blasphemy.

He almost wishes he'd stayed to see the man's face.

“Does this kind of thing happen often?” she asks when they're back on the road.

“Not being allowed in places? Oh, all the time,” Mahanon answers with a shrug. “If I really wanted in, I could always throw on a hood so they can pretend to not notice.”

Cassandra frowns. “That's not right.”

The sincerity in her voice catches him off guard. “That’s nice of you to say, but it's just life for me.”

Varric chuckles. “Yeah, we can't all get away with kicking down walls in the name of the Chantry like you, Seeker.”

For a moment, he thinks their group might get along just fine after all.

“So you truly don't believe in the Maker?” Cassandra starts a second later.

Both he and Varric sigh. “No, I have my own set of gods that I believe in.”

“And there is no room among your gods for one more?”

To his side, Varric scrubs his face with a hand and shakes his head while Mahanon arches a brow. “No, I have eight gods and goddesses and the Dread Wolf. My pantheon’s pretty full unless you wanted to take a couple off my hands? You only have the one and his burning bride. Here, I'll let you borrow any two of mine. Elgar’nan and Mythal are always popular.”

“That's not how it works,” Cassandra protests.

“No, it's not, is it,” he says pointedly.

They exchange glares and the group continues their trek in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from my trip!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the [travelling keepers theory](http://selfish-cat.tumblr.com/post/169298034679/mikkeneko-a-really-bad-decision-charamei) I subscribe to because it's an awesome hc

Humans are crazy and their Chantry is full of shit, Mahanon decides after he watches a templar punch a supposedly holy woman.

Even though she had publicly called out for his death mere moments ago, seeing her lie prone on the ground stirs a little pity in him. Before he can make his way over to her, a man suddenly stands towering over him. It’s not the man who hit the woman, but he seems to be the leader of the group.

He has a sickly pallor but that doesn't take away from his condescending sneer. His entire demeanor rubs Mahanon the wrong way. “You are the Herald of Andraste?”

“No, who are you?” he asks back, meeting the man’s eyes.

The man scowls. Something about him seems off, something lurking just underneath the equally displeasing surface, but he shifts his gaze before Mahanon can take a closer look. “Insolent elf!”

“And there it is. Get in line if you're only here to call me names,” he mutters to Varric’s delight.

“That's Lord Seeker Lucius, he's currently leading the templars,” Cassandra leans in and tells him.

Mahanon arches a brow and turns to her. “He's a Seeker like you then? I thought that was supposed to be a good thing?”

Not for him, he mentally adds, but in general.

She shakes her head. “I'm not so sure right now.” Turning to the man, she says, “Lord Seeker Lucius, it is imperative that we speak to you.”

At the sight of Cassandra, Lucius sneers. “Ah, the traitor.”

The rest of the group turn to look at her.

“I have done no such thing!” Cassandra protests, shock and confusion colouring her face.

Ignoring her, Lucius walks past them with his band of templars behind him. “This Inquisition business is a farce. The Chantry is a farce. Come, men, we've wasted enough time here. These people are unworthy of our protection. It's time we showed the world what is right. The only destiny that demands respect is mine.”

Mahanon wrinkles his nose in distaste.

The templars shout their affirmations except for one who trails behind, glancing back at him and the fallen mother. Mahanon considers calling out to him, but eventually, even he decides to leave to catch up to the others.

“So _those_ were the people Cullen wanted to recruit to help us seal the Breach? I think he just declared war on everyone,” he hisses at Cassandra.

Cassandra’s brows are furrowed even as she shakes her head to herself. “Lord Seeker Lucius does not seem to be himself.”

“You mean he's normally even _more_ charming? I can hardly imagine,” Varric says with an incredulous scoff.

She shakes her head again. “No, something is wrong. We should return to Haven at once.”

Mahanon quickly nods in agreement.

He didn't think an entire city could smell like so bad. If the crowd doesn't kill him, his nose soon may. Even though he smelt it the whole way up to the city, the aroma of sickly sweet roses still catches him off guard and stings at his nose and eyes.

It reminds him of the horrible perfumed mask he had to wear during his time in Tevinter. What was it described as? A druffalo in a rose bath. It seems quite apt now. To think, everyone in this city wears one willingly.

The moment he takes a step towards the gates, an arrow with a note goes whizzing past them and into the ground, and further down the square, some man starts waving a handkerchief in their direction.

“It would appear people are trying to get our attention,” Solas helpfully points out.

Mahanon sighs.

‘At once’ never seems to happen as soon as it should.

\--

“Flex.”

He flexes his fingers and watches the mark come to life.

“How does that feel?”

Mahanon shakes his head. “The same. A bit tingly around the palm but nothing terrible,” he says in Elven—a habit he's fallen into when alone with the other elf. Not his ideal conversation partner but it feels good to speak something other than Common Tongue.

Solas nods and gets up. “That's probably a good thing considering how many rifts you've closed recently. Please let me know if you start experiencing pain again.”

Quickly tugging his sleeve back down past his wrist, he asks, “Do you think the mark will go away when we close the Breach?”

Maybe he'll finally be allowed to go home.

“I don't know. Right now, let's just hope it remains stable. The last time it lashed out, it nearly killed you,” the elf tells him, looking away when he pulls his glove back on. He knows the older man’s seen the scars, but he appreciates the privacy all the same.

His arms seem to be the one topic no one, not even Cassandra, wants to broach. It was the same when he first returned to the clan. Everyone wanted to hear about his daring escape but not the part preceding it. Only Ellana and Keeper Deshanna thought to speak to him about his time in Tevinter.

“Don't get my hopes up and try not to die, got it,” he mutters with a sigh, rubbing his arms.

Solas frowns. “I'm sorry I don't have better news. If I could find out more about it, perhaps I would be able to assist you more.”

Their relationship seems to fluctuate between professionally amicable and deeply hostile depending on the topic of conversation. He's made it a point to not bring up modern elves anymore. After all, he can only listen to so many insults about his people before he's obligated to retaliate.

Mahanon shrugs. “Well, if you ever want to study it, all you have to do is ask.”

Lips curling up slightly, Solas dips his head. “Thank you, da’len. I may take you up on that offer some time.”

\--

Things get easier after the others join.

Sera is fun to drink with even though they had a bit of a rough start because of he was 'too elfy’. After a loud drunken back and forth in the tavern, to the great discomfort of Flissa, they come to an agreement to respect each other's elfiness or lack thereof.

Blackwall quickly overcomes his initial shock that the elf who randomly helped him fight off bandits turned out to be a prophet-in-denial. Mahanon likes the man with his gruffness and silence, only breaking when Sera tells one of her more vulgar jokes. The warden reminds him a little of the driver who used to sit with him in comfortable silence, smoking his pipe.

He tries not to think of the man’s mangled body surrounded by darkspawn corpses.

Vivienne seems to accept him well enough, perhaps because of her life in the circle where humans and elves of all backgrounds seem to wind up. She’s politically savvy in a way he will never be and in a way Josephine is too gentle to be. While it's comforting that she's so self-assured where he is not, he's still hesitant to take her advice as a gesture of goodwill and altruism.

As for the Iron Bull and his Chargers…

“Hey, Boss, there's someone I want you to meet. I pulled her out for the day just for this.”

On his way back from the blacksmith, Mahanon arches a brow and glances over at Krem, who grins and says, “Don't worry, it's not a scorpion down your back or anything. He only saves that for special occasions.”

“Alright,” he mutters, walking up towards the tent with Nugget close at his feet. After that one time, the nug kept showing up at his cabin and eventually started running down the trail to greet him when he returned to Haven. Spreading his arms, he says, “Lay it on me, preferably not physically.”

Bull glances down at the creature at his feet and chuckles. “Still weird. But anyway,” he says, pulling back the flap to his tent, “meet Dalish, one of my Chargers.”

“I still don't understand why the entrance was necessary,” the elf complains, stepping out of the tent. He remembers seeing her briefly in the Storm Coast but she's slipped his mind since.

Seeing her now, he can't deny the sense of relief seeing another Dalish elf brings. Finally, someone with the right amount of ‘elfiness’.

Krem shrugs. “You know how Chief is with his theatrics.”

Ignoring them, Bull smiles. “Thought you might find it nice to spend some time with one of your own,” then he quickly clarifies, “even though she's _our_ mage.”

“Archer!” Dalish immediately protests. “I use a _bow_ , not a staff!”

“Glowing crystals,” Krem calls out.

She glares at them and sighs, their banter clearly a familiar routine. “I keep telling you: they're an old elven trick for aiming!”

His ears immediately perk up with interest. “Can I see it? Where's your clan?”

Dalish smiles. “My keeper thought I should see the world.”

“Her clan had too many mages,” Bull explains, ruffling her hair, easily dodging the half-hearted swat. “You know how it is. Go on, you kids go have fun hunting or singing and dancing or whatever it is you elves do on a frozen mountain. Just try not to get shanked.”

Krem snorts. “Yeah, don't play too close to here or Chief might take out one of your eyes with his perky nipples.”

“Hey!”

Mahanon grins, feeling more excited than he had in days. “Hunting sounds good. I want to see that bow.”

The two of them walk off to the far side of the frozen lake where Dalish hands him her bow. He examines it closely and lets out an appreciative whistle. “Very nice,” he mutters in Elven. “It must've taken weeks just to get the shape of the foci right.”

“It was a farewell gift from my clan to help me ‘blend in among the shem’,” she tells him, rolling her eyes. Her Elven isn't as fluent as his, occasionally peppered with words in Common Tongue, but it's enough for them to hold a conversation. “They make it sound like I'll never return.”

“Too many mages, huh?” he chuckles. “Even Bull believes that story? I'm surprised.”

Dalish shrugs. “He could just be playing along. Whatever it is, he's not prying.” She looks up, ears perking. “Smile, we have company.”

He sighs, glancing around the trees, trying to catch sight of their crest. They're probably Leliana’s scouts, who are no doubt watching and listening. “That's nothing new. You can stand down. These ones are with the spymaster.”

The other elf relaxes a little. “They keep a close eye on you.”

“Yes, well, if any more spies and assassins take up residence here, they'd be able to start their own town. Besides,” raising his hand, he shows her the glow radiating through his glove, “they seem to think this thing is the key to fixing the sky so they want to keep it—and, by attachment, me safe.”

Leaning against a nearby tree, Dalish crosses her arms and asks, “You've sent word to your clan?”

“As best as I could with so many eyes watching. Another Exalted March isn't out of the picture yet,” he tells her, swallowing hard. “If anything happens to me…”

The thought’s been circling his mind since he first woke up in Haven. To say it out loud now makes everything too real and the words fade to silence in his mouth.

“I will send word to the clans immediately. They won't be caught off guard,” she promises.

Mahanon lets out a sigh of relief, a weight suddenly lifting off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

She shoots him a sympathetic look. “You carry a heavy burden, lethallin.”

Smiling weakly, he shrugs. “It's a little lighter now at least. Come, let me see how your bow works. There are plenty of rams and assassins around here to shoot at. Just try not to hit any of the scouts. I don't want to get in any more trouble.”

There's a distant crunch.

Dalish arches a brow. “That one of your spymaster’s too?”

He grins and draws his own bow. “No, that one is a spy who will soon wish we had human ears.”

They take down a ram and four spies before they accidentally hit a druffalo and run all the way back to camp.

\--

“We should go to the mages for help!”

“The templars are the better choice!”

“We need magic to close the Breach!” Leliana argues.

“Who knows what throwing magic at magic will do?” Cullen points out. “What if it becomes unstable again?”

Leliana crosses her arms. “And using templars is any better?”

“I used to be a templar, I know what they're capable of! Suppressing the Breach would be better than powering it up!”

“We have no proof that would even work!”

Mahanon yawns and leans against the door, waiting for the meeting to end. Despite being at an unspoken ceasefire with the advisors, he doesn't understand why he's expected to attend these little gatherings. All the four have done so far is argue amongst themselves.

“What about you? You'll be the one going to meet these people. What do you think we should do?” Josephine asks, looking as fed up with the debate as him.

Right. He's here as a tiebreaker.

“Mages,” he answers immediately. “We should go to Redcliffe and hear what Fiona has to say.”

Cullen frowns but only asks, “Are you sure?”

He's not about to explain what it was like to be always on the lookout for templars. Being fearful for not only their mages, but also for their hunters who had equally high chances of having a bad run-in with the armed humans. As far as he's concerned, templars are right down there with bandits and only one above slavers.

Mahanon nods. “Yes, I doubt the Lord Seeker will respect the destiny of an insolent elf like me.” Cassandra lets out a scoff. “It also helps that the mages didn't try to declare war on all of Thedas. It can't hurt to hear them out at least.”

Cassandra nods along in a rare instance of approval. “At least one of us can make up their minds. It's settled then. We shouldn't waste any more time fighting amongst ourselves.”

\--

“Things can’t possibly get any stranger,” Mahanon mutters, shaking the strange feeling out of his limbs. That rift at the gates seemed to bend and distort time, dragging him down to a crawl at times and flinging him across the battlefield at others.

Vivienne mentioned temporal magic, but he doesn’t even know where to start understanding the very idea. He has a hard enough idea keeping up with Josephine’s lessons on local politics.

The gates open and an Inquisition soldier comes out to meet them. “I sent word of the Inquisition’s arrival, but no one here seemed to be expecting us—not even Grand Enchanter Fiona.”

He frowns. “Alright. Never mind. This is stranger.” Scratching his head, he sighs, “Where is she? I’ll go see her myself.”

The soldier salutes. “In the local tavern, My Lord. May the Maker walk with you.”

May the Maker leave him alone, he doesn’t answer.

Bull chuckles and he really hopes there’s something funny happening in the distance because he’s not equipped to handle qunari mind-reading spies just yet.

“Just a funny bird, Boss,” Bull reassures him.

He is not reassured.

“Let’s go,” he tells them, leading the group into town.

Redcliffe is swarming with mages. Walking around, Mahanon can feel the tension in the air as they make their way through the town with both locals and refugees throwing them both side glances and personal requests.

“Please, if you see Lord Woolsley, let him know that his Jimmy misses him very much.”

Mahanon glances around at his team who shrug unhelpfully at him. “I’ll be sure to pass on the message if I run into him,” he says hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Thank you! Oh, please find him! Lord Woolsley is a very special ram!”

Stranger and stranger yet.

Vivienne and Bull don't appear bothered in the least by the attention while he and Sera do their best to hide in Bull’s shadow. Sera’s used to hiding up on roofs and in the shadows or behind the name of Red Jenny, and he’s used to remaining on the outskirts of human settlements.

The last time he was in a place this crowded was in Tevinter and that had been far from peaceful and non-life-threatening. His senses are on high alert and he finds himself eyeing every person who passes him for hidden weapons. Being known as a holy prophet doesn't put him anymore at ease.

He has his hood drawn up when they approach the pub. Although he doubts anyone will notice him among all the chaos and mash of people, being denied entry would be a horribly embarrassing setback and he's not about to travel another week to go crawling to the templars for a second chance because of something so avoidable.

The tavern is packed with mages, some drinking merrily while others are huddled together, buzzing with nervousness. They find Fiona near the back, looking agitated and uncomfortable. Tilting his head curiously, he approaches her. “Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

She looks over and blinks, zero recognition in her eyes as she asks politely, “Yes? How may I help you?” Then she glances back and blinks. “First Enchanter Vivienne, is that you?”

Vivienne waves and smiles. “Hello, Fiona, dear. You look terrible.”

“Hello to you too,” Fiona sighs. She looks exhausted but that doesn’t take away from the air of authority around her as she asks, “Why are you here?”

Mahanon steps in before any more exchanges can take place between the two enchanters. Pushing back his hood, he asks, hoping to elicit a better reaction, “Do you have any idea who we are? You're the one who called us here.”

Still nothing.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't call for anyone—I didn’t have any time to,” Fiona answers, shaking her head.

He wonders if this is all some sort of elaborate magical prank and glances over at Vivienne for help.

The First Enchanter places her hands on her hips and tuts, “Fiona, my dear, your dementia is showing.”

Amusing but ultimately unhelpful.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he does his best to reiterate his side of the story only to have Fiona shake her head again. “That couldn't have been me, I have not been in Val Royeaux since before the conclave, and if you're seeking the aid of the mages, I am afraid you will have to get permission from Magister Gereon Alexius.”

“Oh boy,” Bull mutters under his breath. “That didn't take long at all.”

Mahanon feels the blood drain from his face at the name. “I'm sorry, can you repeat that?”

“We have since become indentured to Magister Alexius. If you require our assistance, you must seek his permission first,” Fiona repeats, her displeasure clear.

Sera wrinkles her nose. “Bad idea is bad. Your idea? The worst.”

Fiona frowns and protests, “We had no other choice. We had the templars _and_ the Chantry after us and no one else dared to step in. I was losing people fast and Magister Alexius was the only one who offered us any help.”

“I wouldn't exactly call servitude 'help’,” Bull points out.

Mahanon doesn't contribute. He glances around, trying to find a place to hide out of sight to gather more information first. Nothing in this town seems to be making any sense, least of all this.

Just then, the door to the tavern opens and Mahanon quickly pulls his hood back up over his head in time to hear, “The Herald of Andraste! I've been waiting to meet you.”

He has to consciously keep his head from bowing out of old habit as Alexius approaches. The magister is dressed in a Tevinter uniform rather than his usual robes. Alexius seems to have aged considerably since Mahanon last saw him. There's a blankness mixed with desperation in his eyes even as his lips curl up in a smile.

In his memory, he remembers Alexius getting ready for First Day with his wife fussing over his robes, their warm laughter and quiet banter reaching his ears down the hall as Felix tried to work out his own outfit. They’d knocked on their son's door hand in hand to bid him a good time before proceeding downstairs to their carriage.

Then Livia died saving them, and Felix…

Alexius stops in front of him and pauses. A familiar astuteness returns to him as he studies him for a moment. “You're the Herald?”

Mahanon looks up and shrugs, keeping his voice level. “That's what people keep calling me. Is there a problem?”

“No, you just seem familiar,” the magister says, brows furrowed.

“A similar elf, perhaps?” he says lightly. “I understand we can be hard to tell apart sometimes.”

Alexius shakes his head as though clearing his thoughts. “No, forgive me. You cannot be the same elf. Please, take a seat,” he says, gesturing at the table. “I understand you are looking for mages to help seal the Breach.”

He arches a brow. “Word travels fast around here. You seem well acquainted with our situation.”

From the side, Fiona narrows her eyes. “Yes, conveniently so.”

The magister waves her comment off. “I’m afraid as indentured servants of the Imperium, all affairs of the mages here will have to go through me. However, I'm certain we can draw a mutually beneficial deal between the two of us.”

Mahanon leans forward in his seat. “Is that right?”

The door opens again and another group enters, led by a young man in a similar yellow uniform. Alexius smiles, a little more genuinely this time. “Ah, Felix, come meet the long awaited Herald of Andraste. Herald, this is my son, Felix.”

He freezes again.

Although it's been six years, Felix still looks the same. His cheeks have hollowed a little and his complexion is paler than Mahanon remembers, with dark bags beneath his eyes and a weariness that wasn't there before, but there's no doubt that it's the same Felix Alexius he'd met in Tevinter.

The two of them lock eyes and time seems to stop for a moment as recognition flickers in the young man’s widened eyes. Felix is the first to recover from the shock and bows before his father can catch on. “It's an honour to meet you, my lord.”

Mahanon takes in a shaky breath and nods, fingers subconsciously rubbing his wrist. “The pleasure’s all mine.”

Alexius smiles. “As I was saying—”

Suddenly, Felix starts coughing and he's out of his seat to help the young man before he can collapse to the ground. They lock eyes again as a piece of paper is slipped into his hand with a quick squeeze as if to confirm his presence.

“Felix!” Alexius yells, jumping out of his seat. He hoists his son up and helps him to his feet. “Fiona, get his powders and bring the healer to the castle!” He glances back at Mahanon. “Excuse me, Herald, we will have to continue this another time. I will have a messenger contact you.”

Eyes still on him, Felix mutters, “I'm so sorry to be a bother.”

“Come now, Felix, you need to rest.” Without wasting another moment, Alexius helps Felix out of the tavern and leaves him alone with his crew.

“That was weird,” Sera says the moment the door closes. “This whole thing is weird. I don't like it.”

“She's right, Boss,” Bull says. “You alright? You kind of froze up back there.”

He's being kind and playing clueless, Mahanon realizes distantly. He's probably figured out the situation by now.

Not answering, he looks down at the paper in his hand. “‘ _Come to the chantry_ ,’” he reads the neat and faintly familiar script slowly. “‘ _You are in danger_.’”

Sera frowns. “Duh and extra weird.”

“That sounds like quite the obvious trap, my dear,” Vivienne says. “Perhaps it would be best to turn back and wait them out?”

Mahanon shakes his head, mind reeling from everything that just took place. Alexius taking the mages into servitude and Felix alive? “No, I need to go to the chantry. I need to know what's going on.”

The rest of his group exchange wary glances before following him out the tavern.

\--

It’s a short walk to the chantry. Standing outside, he can hear fighting happening inside. Brows furrowing, he pushes the door open to find a familiar figure shooting flames out of his staff only to turn around to bludgeon a Shade with it.

“What kind of mage uses their staff as a club,” Vivienne mutters with distaste.

At their approach, the mage turns around and says jauntily, “Oh good, you—” He does a double take, eyes widening. “You're alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere in Minrathous, a blacksmith is getting heart palpitations
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's how Dorian and Non's meeting in the chantry would've gone in canon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12748431/chapters/30945232)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Slavery and suicide mention

His mind blanks as he takes in the familiar figure in front of him. A long moment passes as the two of them stare at one another in silence. Eventually, Dorian shakes his head slowly in disbelief. "It's really you? You're alive, but how?”

Mahanon opens his mouth to answer but Bull and Sera go charging past him towards the demons pouring out from the rift. “Less talking and more fighting please!”

Snapping out of his stupor, he draws his daggers and nods. “They're right, we can talk after.”

He rushes forward and cuts down one of the Shades, feeling a barrier form around him, though whether from Dorian or Vivienne, he can't be sure. To his side, a Terror leaps out of the ground towards him only to be smashed back by Bull’s axe then felled by an arrow to the head.

Together, they fight off the demons and he raises his hand up to close the rift. Dorian watches as the green portal folds in on itself and disappears before jogging up to him. The rest of the group tense and watch him, waiting for the signal to act. He gestures for them to stand down.

“Fascinating, how does that work, exactly?” Dorian asks, as if the shock of their reunion paled in comparison to the mark.

Brows furrowing, he flicks the blood off his blades and sheaths them before facing the mage. “Dorian,” he tries.

Dorian laughs a little frantically and runs a hand through his hair, slightly disheveled from the fight. “You don't even know, do you? You probably just wave your hand and poof! Rift closes.” He takes a deep breath and glances skyward. “Of course you're the one involved with all this hole in the sky nonsense. Stirring up so much trouble, how could it possibly be anyone else?”

“ _Dorian_ ,” he says again more forcefully, all too aware of the curious gazes of his team.

Taking a step back, Dorian shakes himself out of his shock and gives him a once over. “I thought you were dead. Your hair is different and your hand is glowing, but it’s really you,” he says at last.

Mahanon exhales, shoulders sagging. “Yes, it's really me.”

"How are _you_ the Herald of Andraste?”

“Not by choice.”

Dorian furrows his brows. “But aren't you Dalish?”

He wishes Cassandra was here so he could give her more pointed looks.

“I am very Dalish. Like I said: not by choice,” he answers. “What are you doing in Ferelden? And why is Alexius here?”

“He's here because he joined a cult,” a new voice joins them.

Mahanon whirls around, eyes widening when he sees Felix enter through a side door with his healer, looking no worse for than earlier. “Felix! Sanna!”

The healer spares him a smile. She looks exactly the same as when he left Tevinter, although the circles under her eyes tell a different story. “It’s been a while, Mahanon. I’m glad to see you alive and well. How are your arms?”

Holding up his left hand, he lets the mark shine through his glove and smiles sheepishly. “I've made it worse, I'm afraid.”

She shakes her head and sighs. “Of course you have. I hope you have a decent healer on hand. Strange glowing marks are out of my jurisdiction.”

He immediately thinks of Solas and gives a slight nod and a shrug.

“Mahanon, it really is you then,” Felix mutters in disbelief. “You survived.”

Making his way over, he studies the young man closely and replies, “I did. And you're still alive. When we last parted ways…” he trails off, not wanting to voice what he knows they’re all thinking. “Did they heal you or...?”

Felix shakes his head. “They've put off the inevitable is all.” Then he frowns, refocusing. “I don’t think I should’ve played the illness card. I don't have much time before my father returns to check on me. He's joined a cult that worships some magister called the 'Elder One’.”

“A very pretentious name but also very Tevinter,” Dorian helpfully adds, running a hand idly over his moustache. “They call themselves the Venatori, a group of Tevinter supremacists, and have unfortunately been gaining more followers as of late.”

Mahanon frowns. “What are they after?”

The mage waves his hand offhandedly. “Oh, you know, bringing back the glory that was the old Imperium, world domination, the usual. What makes them dangerous is their magic. Did you notice how time seemed to twist around itself? Slowing down in some places and speeding up in others around the rift?”

He nods. “It was happening around the rift just outside the gates as well.”

"You can thank Alexius for that. He's using the magic we were working on, and whatever he’s using it for is distorting time,” Dorian explains. “Soon, it'll spread out and who knows what kind of consequences that could have on this world.”

Mahanon furrows his brows. “Assuming time magic is a thing, this doesn't sound like him. Alexius may have the southern mages, but how does that benefit him? I don’t understand.”

Dorian opens his mouth to answer but glances over at his friend and changes his mind.

“He’s changed since you last saw him.” Felix says, frown deepening. “And he's doing all this to get to you. The cult’s obsessed with you and I don't know why yet.”

“All this for me, huh?” he mutters with a grimace. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

Dorian heaves a sigh. “Really, what is it about you that attracts the attention of magisters so?”

He shoots the other a crooked grin. “Must be something about my eyes.”

Chuckling, Dorian shakes his head. “Such a ridiculous elf. You haven't changed at all. Listen, I have to go. Alexius doesn't know I'm here and I'd prefer to keep it that way. But when you go to stop him, I'm coming with you.”

Mahanon glances from one mage to the next. “Stop him? I don't mind, but do the two of you really mean to go against him?”

“Well, I didn't come all the way to the savage south to pick daisies—as lovely as I’m sure they are,” Dorian says, nodding at Felix. “We will have time to catch up when this affair is put behind us. I'll be in touch. And Felix? Try not to die.”

Felix shoots him a half-hearted scowl before shaking his head. “There are worse things than dying, Dorian.”

The exchange is sullen and morose, so unlike the banter he remembers listening to in the study even when he couldn’t understand any of the words exchanged. He looks over at Felix. “Are you sure about this? He's your father.”

At this, Felix smiles, humourless and wry. “It's the right thing to do. For his own sake, we have to stop him. I won’t…I won’t leave him like this.” A mild coughing fit comes over him and Sanna immediately leads him away back towards the side door. Before departing, the young man glances back. “Mahanon?”

“What is it?”

“It’s good to see you again. I really am glad that you're alive.”

The old guilt that followed him through his journey home from Tevinter returns. “And I'm sorry I couldn't protect you.”

Felix shakes his head again, a familiar look of gentle encouragement on his face. “You have nothing to be sorry for. Like Dorian said, we'll have to speak more later.”

Left alone in the chantry, Mahanon takes in a shaky breath and wonders if everything that’d just happened was fabricated by his imagination.

“So, Boss, anything you want to share?” Bull asks, breaking the silence.

Sera frowns. “Yeah, like who are they are why are you all best times with them?”

He rubs his wrist hesitantly. “They’re good people. They're friends from my...time in Tevinter.”

\--

When they return to Haven, he makes his way to the chantry to debrief his advisors. By the time he's done his report, they four are bickering amongst themselves again. Sighing, he excuses himself and retires to his cabin only to find Varric there. “Hey, Freckles, there you are. Productive meeting?”

Mahanon scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Very.”

He enters the cabin followed by Varric, who takes a seat on a stool by the fireplace. Throwing a pot of water over fire, he pulls up a chair and waits. “So what's this I'm hearing about you spending time in Tevinter and making friends there?”

Word travels fast, but that's not surprising. If anything, he’s surprised Varric didn’t approach him earlier about this. He leans back. “You have a spy network, Varric, you should know this already.”

Varric chuckles. “Please, I use them to spy, not to snoop. I know more about any one of my spies and their extended family members than I do about you.” He sits up a little straighter and grins. “Besides, you never really looked like you wanted to talk about it. I can respect that. But when you _are_ ready to talk, as a writer, I prefer to hear about it from the source.”

“You're writing a book? About me?” Mahanon asks incredulously.

“Trying to anyway. Who _doesn't_ want to write about the infamous Herald of Andraste, Survivor of the Conclave as dictated by the will of the Maker?” Varric says. “You’re not making it easy though. So far, all I've got is ‘Pointed ears, black tattoos, crazy glowing yellow eyes; the Herald of Anyone but Andraste was a Dalish elf.’”

Mahanon leans a little forward. “I quite like that, actually.”

The dwarf grins. “I thought you might. I always strive for accuracy. So you got any good stories for sharing? From your clan, from Tevinter, anything at all; audiences love a good background story.”

At this, he frowns and shakes his head. “I don’t mind talking about it, but I think it might be better for you to take your liberties. I don't have any stories that would work for your book.”

“Try me.”

He glances up and taps his cheek in thought. “Background-wise…my clan mostly wander in the north of the Free Marches. We take in any slaves and refugees we find when we travel up by the Silent Plains or Hasmal. The ones that make it, we mostly ferry them to the nearest town, but sometimes we get elves that end up staying with us.

“One time, we found a woman. She recovered quickly but then she found out she was carrying a magister’s child…” He pauses, wringing his hands. “We found her at the bottom of the cliffs the next day.”

Varric frowns. “Shit.”

Mahanon’s lips curl into a wry smile. “Yeah. And if you're looking for stories from Tevinter, well, I don't remember too much myself. When I arrived in Minrathous, they lined us up on the docks, our arms and legs in chains. I tried to escape, of course. But they caught me. I thought I was going to die that day,” he mutters, running a finger lightly over a scar on the side of his head. “The first of many times.”

Wincing, the writer asks, “How’d you get out of it?”

“I didn’t,” he answers. “Not on my own. A man—this complete stranger asked them to stop and you know what they did? They set him on fire and he died in my place.”

“Shit,” Varric says again. “That's why you looked ready to chuck your breakfast at the temple.”

“Burning flesh isn't really a smell you forget, though I’m sure you have your own share of stories similar to that.” Sitting back, he looks out the window impassively. “Like I said, I don't have any stories appropriate for your book. Sorry.”

“I see what you mean,” Varric mutters. With a concerned look on his face, he says, "Alright, why don't you make something up with me? We can skip to your grand escape. How about you rip a guy's heart out—no wait, that'd overlap with Broody… How about you slice someone's throat so hard you decapitate them. This will be the opening scene so it has to catch the reader's attention.”

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “No thanks. Besides, I think you already wrote something like that for Hawke.”

Varric snaps his fingers and huffs. “Damn it. Hawke and his ridiculous arms are always stealing opening scenes from me.”

Chuckling, Mahanon gets up to throw ingredients he gathered from the Hinterlands into the pot. “Don’t worry, I'm alright, Varric,” he reassures the other. “Tevinter was a long time ago.”

The look he gets from the dwarf is anything but convinced, but Varric doesn't press the matter. “Alright, it's your call, Freckles. You know where I'll be if you ever want to talk or think of anything I can use.”

His brain quickly scans through some of the more memorable moments in Tevinter but decides against telling them. It wouldn't do anyone any good to publicize those events. “I think I'll leave the storytelling to you. Just promise me you'll keep that line in there?”

“The line about you being Dalish?” Varric asks. Letting out a laugh, he promises, “Freckles, I'll make you the Dalishest elf to have ever Dalished.”

\--

There's a knock on his door in the morning as he's reheating up his leftover stew. With a knife hanging off his belt, he reaches down and gathers Nugget, who'd shown up for dinner and stayed the night, in his arms. The nug doesn’t seem particularly concerned, happily hanging limply off his arm, so he goes to see who his guest is.

Standing outside is a familiar elven woman.

“Charter? Good morning,” he mutters. As one of Leliana’s more senior scouts, he's had more opportunity to speak to her than with the other dozen who are probably currently observing their interaction from their posts.

“Good morning, My Lord,” she greets him.

“‘My Lord’ she calls you! So it really wasn't just a fever dream,” a familiar voice joins in.

Mahanon looks over to find Dorian standing a little ways away, leaning lazily against his staff. “This man insisted on speaking to you,” the scout explains. “He said you two are acquainted? Would you rather I show him to guest accommodations?”

He shakes his head. “No, it's fine. We’re acquainted as he said.” Nodding at the mage, he says, “I doubt you want to stay outside, Dorian, why don’t you come inside?”

Dorian walks over and makes a sweeping gesture. “But you have such lovely spies and assassins decorating your woods. It almost reminds me of home except cold and terrible—is that a nug?”

Looking down, he nods. “Yes, this is Nugget.”

The man blinks and narrows his eyes. “You named a nug ‘Nugget’?” Shaking his head, he steps inside the cabin and continues, “Never mind. I got tired of camping and decided to come by, but I heard you just got back yesterday yourself? You sure took your sweet time getting back.”

“Yeah, well, things came up around Redcliffe and we got sidetracked,” he explains.

“Don't tell me you stopped to help a little girl pick flowers?”

Mahanon scoffs. “No, we were helping a boy find his ram.”

Dorian arches a brow. “Excuse me?”

He smiles and shrugs helplessly. “Lord Woolsley is a very special ram.”

“Of course. I'm going to pretend that sentence made sense,” Dorian tells him breezily. Then he perks up and digs around his pocket and fishes out a tin of healing balm. “Right, Felix’s healer asked me to pass this onto you. Still doting on you even after so many years.”

Mahanon pockets the balm carefully and chuckles. “All part of my charm. Thank you. Sanna is too good to me.” Chatting so casually like this feels so strange and nostalgic he can hardly believe they’re really in Haven with a hole in the sky. “You have good timing, I’m meeting the advisors later today. With any luck, they’ll have come to an agreement.”

“And if they haven’t?”

Sighing, he puts Nugget down and walks over to the fire to stir the pot. “Then it’s going to be a long day. Breakfast?”

Dorian plops down in a nearby chair and Mahanon can see that his time in the south has worn on him. That doesn’t seem to deter his quips and witty remarks though. “If the day is as long as you're making it out to be, breakfast sounds like a good idea. It's not the classic ‘indiscernible grey slop’, is it? I understand it the national dish here and they’re very proud of it, but I've had more than enough for a lifetime.”

He glances down at the contents and shrugs. “No, it's ram stew. If anything, it's more brown than grey.”

“Very well, I'll have a bowl, please,” Dorian sighs. “In the meantime, why don't you give me a rundown of the situation here? Honestly, I leave you alone for six years and you go and tear a hole in the sky.”

\--

Cullen shakes his head, protesting, “No, I still don't like this. It's obviously a trap. It’s not too late. We can still go to the templars.”

“And let Alexius’ experiments go unchecked? Your templars are used to dealing with gentle and meek southern mages. They won't stand a chance against the Venatori,” Dorian argues back, his voice calm but confident. Mahanon’s familiar with this tone, having heard it numberless times in the past. If he leaves this conversation unchecked, he’s sure he’ll end up with a new advisor by the end of the day.

“You don't know what templars here are capable of,” Cullen replies, brows furrowed.

Dorian waves him off. “Please. I grew up learning how to put templars in their place. It's a regular part of our curriculum from ages twelve to fifteen. Now, are you expecting a demonstration or can we move on?”

“No demonstration necessary. Unless you’re planning to ask Alexius to slow the world down for you, we don’t have time for this,” Mahanon says, cutting in. “I saw how the rifts around Redcliffe affected things around it. If it spreads, this time distortion will cause us even more problems later.”

“And just to be clear,” Josephine says, “you trust this mage and his friend to help us? Didn't you say they're both closely connected to the magister who’s causing all of this trouble?”

He glances over at Dorian who merely returns his gaze and nods. “They are, but they wouldn't be here if they were just going to stand back and watch. They helped me back when I was in Tevinter. I trust them.”

“Alright, but there's still the matter of getting into Redcliffe castle,” Cassandra points out. “It’s built to withstand sieges and has done exactly that for many years. We’ll never make it in.”

“Actually, I may know a way in. I could send my scouts, but we’ll need a distraction if they're to have a chance,” Leliana says, pushing her pieces forward on the war table. “Perhaps the convey Alexius so desperately wants?”

Cassandra frowns and turns to him. “If you’re going through with this, I'm coming with you. We need you alive and we have no way of discerning if this man’s intentions are as he says they are.”

Dorian scoffs. “Suspicious friends you have here. I will concede her point though.”

“You're the one who'll be in the most danger,” Cullen says, giving him a nod. “We can't in good conscience _ask_ this of you.”

All eyes turn to him and Mahanon sighs, rolling his eyes skyward. “Just tell me what to do.”

\--

 _The sound of metal clanking against metal._  
  
Muffled voices.  
  
“…non...Mahanon…”

“Mahanon! This is no time to be sleeping! Wake up!”

His eyes snap open and he comes to again. Blinking, he looks up to see Dorian holding off two warriors with a barrier. Pushing himself up onto unsteady feet, he pulls his daggers out and charges forward.

The men take a step back in surprise. “It's the Herald! He's alive! But how?”

He seems to be hearing a lot of that lately.

The bars around him and claustrophobic ceilings make his chest tighten. Evidently, contrary to what he told Varric, he’s not fine. Perhaps Tevinter wasn’t as long ago as he tried to convince himself.

Ignoring the panic and ducking a blow, Mahanon rushes up, jamming a dagger up the too-loose helmet. There's a gurgle and he can feel liquid pouring down the fingers of his glove. He dislodges the blade and turns around just in time to watch the second warrior freeze.

With the hilt of his dagger, he shatters the ice and watches the man crumble into the knee-deep water. Taking a shaky breath, he tightens his grip around his weapons to stop his hands from trembling.

“What happened, Dorian? Where are we?” he asks, voice tight.

Dorian walks up to the bars of the cell and pulls at them. “It looks like this is all real. The last thing I remember, Alexius tried to cast a spell on you and I intercepted it and now we're who knows where. This looks like Redcliffe Castle still.” Rubbing his chin in thought, he mutters, “Perhaps it's not a matter of where but when?”

“When?” he repeats, blinking. “As in we travelled through time? Can you get us back?”

“Yes,” the man answers calmly. “Well, in theory anyway. So let's put that at a solid 'maybe’. First things first, we'll need to find Alexius and that talisman he used. What are the chances he's still here?”

“I'll give you a solid 'maybe’,” Mahanon replies dryly.

Dorian scoffs. “Such cheek. We should go gather more information. Preferably somewhere well-lit and dry. Can you get us out?”

“Another solid 'maybe’,” he mutters, wading over to the cell door. Pulling out a lock pick from his belt, he begins working at the lock.

A sudden tremor seizes his hand and he snaps the lock pick.

He curses under his breath.

Normally, he'd be able to open a simple lock like this with the flick of a finger.

At the sound of metal snapping, Dorian turns from his pondering and asks, “Are you alright?”

Mahanon nods, his throat still tight and knotted. At the very least, with so little lighting, it's unlikely the man can see how pale he's become. “Fine. I'll be even better after we get out of here,” he manages, pulling out another lock pick from his jacket.

The door unlocks with a loud click and swings open with a rusty creak. He tucks the lock pick back in his jacket and shakes the weakness out of his arms, the glowing mark almost a comforting reminder of his current situation.

Stepping outside, the corridor is just as narrow, but already, he can feel himself breathing a little easier.

Dorian steps past him and looks around, wading his way down the hall. “We need to go back and fix this as soon as possible. Let's head upstairs. Perhaps we’ll find something there.” He turns back and grins. “Don't worry, I'll protect you.”

Pausing in his step, he feels a smile tugging at his lips.

As though sensing this, Dorian arches a brow. “What are you smirking at?”

Still smiling, Mahanon shakes his head. “You've become braver since I last saw you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing that last part, it occurred to me how weird it was that when you time travelled, you end up with a locked cell with guards inside who had a key?? Did they lock themselves in? Did you interrupt their private time? Why are they there??


	5. Chapter 5

The knee-high water makes the trek out of the hallway a slow and uncomfortable one. He glances inside each of the cells for anything useful only to find them all empty. “These parts don't seem to be in use except for those men in the cell we landed in.”

Dorian sniffs in distaste. “At least Alexius still has enough sense to not hold prisoners down here. Their lower half would rot off given enough time. Imagine the smell.”

Following the train of thought, Mahanon mutters, “That, or there aren't any more prisoners to fill the cells with.”

“Yes, I suppose that's also a possibility. We need to find out when this is and where Alexius is. He can expect a hefty bill for my laundry after this.”

He huffs in amusement and continues pushing forward until they finally come across stairs leading up. The first few steps out of the water are a relief until they reach the next floor and find red lyrium growing out of the walls. “Careful,” Mahanon says, holding a hand out. “Red lyrium. I told you right? Varric said this stuff can make you lose your mind if you're exposed to it for too long.”

Dorian glances around uncomfortably, staying as far back as possible. “Cheery choice for decor. Best we get out of here soon then. I'd hate to be used as a cautionary tale for young Tevinter mages about the dangers of travelling down south.” Then he looks down and frowns. “We're surrounded by _poison_ and you're prancing around barefooted.”

Eyes drifting down at his feet, he shrugs. “I don't like shoes.”

“My heart weeps for you,” Dorian deadpans, rolling his eyes. “What are you going to do if you get a shard of that stuff up your foot? Didn't you just say it'll drive you mad? I’m going to need you in perfect health if we're to have even the slightest chance of making it out of here and back to our own time.”

As much as he hates to admit it, the man has a point. Sighing, Mahanon digs around his pockets and comes up empty handed. “Got anything I can wrap them up with?”

With a sigh, Dorian rummages through the pockets lining his belt, pulling out vials and books, and Mahanon can't help but wonder how his pants stay up with all that weight. Eventually, he pulls out a roll of bandages and passes it over. “It's better than nothing. You wouldn't happen to have a sheet of metal or leather on you, do you? For padding? I could make a sheet of ice for you,” he offers.

Mahanon arches a brow, immediately picturing himself sliding down a set of stairs and drowning in knee-deep, murky dungeon water. “That'd be more dangerous than the red lyrium.” Going through his person, he shrugs. “I've got blades I could use?”

Dorian quickly shakes his head. “No, no, you'll just cut yourself up and bleed out, and this is neither the time nor place to go through that again.”

“Should I bind bricks to my feet then?” he asks in exasperation.

The mage snorts. “You'd have an extra weapon at your disposal at least—and maybe we'll finally be able to see eye to eye.” Mahanon spares him a glare and he raises his hands in surrender. “I retract my comment. Just bind them for now until we find something better.”

\--

They manage to take out the guards upstairs by pushing them off the ledge. Dorian wants to move on but he reaches out and tugs at his robes. “They were guarding something or someone. We should go check it out. They might need help.”

Dorian gives him a long look before sighing. “You haven't changed at all. Fine. Let's go.”

Unsure what to make of that, the two of them wind back down the stairs to another set of dungeons where he hears a familiar voice in prayer.

“Cassandra!” he shouts, running to her cell—his relief and concern overwhelming any distaste he may have had for her. “Cassandra, are you alright? Creators, what happened to you?”

She looks up, eyes wide with horror and tinged with a red glow. “You! It can't be! The Maker is punishing me by sending me the spirits of those I failed.” Hiding her face, she shakes her head. “Maker forgive me. I have failed you. I have failed all of you.”

Blinking, Mahanon quickly sets about undoing the lock. “I'm no spirit, Cassandra. We're really here,” he says gently.

“You can’t be. I watched you get killed by that magister,” she insists.

He looks to Dorian for help. “Alexius didn't kill us. He merely sent us here to this rather unfortunate timeline,” the mage explains. “You wouldn't happen to know what year it is, would you? It's important.”

Cassandra looks at them, one after the other before replying, “It's Harvestmere, 9:42 Dragon.”

“A year ahead then,” Mahanon exclaims, throwing the door open. “Only a year, Dorian, and look what this place has turned into!”

Dorian purses his lips. “Quite bleak, I agree, but we don't have time to mull over this right now. Are we going to keep looking through these dungeons?”

“Yes, of course. The others might be here,” he answers. Turning around, he asks, “Are you coming, Cassandra? We're going to try to undo this.”

“Undo this? Is that possible?” she asks incredulously.

Mahanon shrugs. “Maybe. We're going to find out.”

She makes a disgusted noise. “I don't know whether to find your honesty reassuring or troubling.”

“It's normally both and also somewhat irritating,” Dorian chimes in.

The two of them scoff. “Lasa adahl su nar masa,” he retorts half-heartedly.

Dorian perks up with interest. “I think I remember that phrase!”

At this, Mahanon laughs. “Out of all things, of course you remember that one.”

Cassandra sighs and moves to step out of her cell and stumbles, legs weak from disuse. Mahanon goes to help her but she barks, “Stay back!” He immediately gets yanked back by the jacket by Dorian, who holds his staff out, ready to fend off an attack. Cassandra stands back up and explains, “I am tainted with red lyrium. There's no telling how it may affect you.”

He takes another step back and holds his hands up in surrender. “Very well. I understand. I’ll keep my distance. Are you alright though?”

She looks sharply for a moment only to shake her head. “No, the only way any of this will be alright is if it never happens in the first place.”

“Fair enough,” he mutters, walking over to the door. “Do you have any idea where we can find Alexius?”

“He's still here in Redcliffe Castle,” Cassandra says. But as he and Dorian exchange pleasantly surprised looks, she adds, “He's not the one you need to worry about. It's the Elder One.”

“Of course there’s a catch,” Dorian sighs.

As they continue scouring the dungeon, Mahanon asks, “Who exactly is this Elder One?”

He steps aside and gestures at a wooden door blocking their path. Cassandra steps up and kicks it down. “That felt good. He is a very powerful magister,” she says, ignoring Dorian’s look of alarm. “With his demon army, he assassinated Empress Celene and threw Thedas into chaos. We are all at his mercy now—unless _you_ do something, Herald of Andraste.”

Mahanon frowns. “I'm not—”

“Whether you believe in the Maker or not, you are still our last chance,” Cassandra says. “Your beliefs do not change that.”

Arching a brow, he walks past her and through the door. “I'm going to quote you when I get into my next argument with the other you.”

She scoffs and almost smiles. “If you find a way to fix this, you can say whatever you want to me.”

“Maker, Seeker? Is that you? They're really getting serious with the torture, aren't they? Don't tell me you're here to read _Hard in Hightown 3_ to me,” a voice groans from the end of the hall.

Mahanon jogs over to find Varric staring up at the ceiling and grumbling unhappily to himself. “Varric! You're still here!”

Varric squints at him. “The Seeker _and_ Freckles? Look, you can either stab me or guilt me to death but not both.”

He laughs in relief. “Good to see you still have your wits about you. It's actually me, Varric.”

The dwarf shakes his head and sighs, “I appreciate the compliment, but no, you're dead. Then again, I suppose it's about time for the hallucinations to start.”

Frowning, he crouches down and starts picking the lock. “Not dead, just in the wrong time. Dorian thinks there's a way to fix this though.”

With a scoff, Varric leans back against the wall and watches them. “Fix this? What are you planning to do? Travel back in time? Even I wouldn't use a cheap out like that for my books.”

Mahanon’s lips curl up. “I did tell you I didn't have any stories for your book.”

Eyes widening, Varric looks over at Dorian. “You're serious then?”

The mage shrugs. “It's our best and only shot at fixing this.”

Varric continues thinking it over for a few moments before letting out a sigh, “Freckles, everything that happens to you is weird.”

“I wish I could tell you otherwise.” The lock clicks and Mahanon steps back to let the door swing open. “Can you walk? Come with us. We need to find Alexius and undo this mess.”

“Shit, yeah, okay. Adventuring’s not the worst hallucination to have.” Looking around the dungeons, Varric chuckles. “I would've picked a cheerier setting though. Maybe a nice, lively bar with a game of Wicked Grace—and a less stabby companion.”

Cassandra answers with a disgusted noise and they move on.

“Well, I never thought there’d come a day where I'd find that sound reassuring,” Varric says, echoing his thoughts.

\--

The four of them comb through the rest of the dungeons only to find Fiona babbling incoherently, half swallowed by red lyrium. Mahanon swallows hard and glances over at his crew, who shake their heads. “She's too far gone to save now,” Cassandra tells him. “We'll only kill her if we break the lyrium.”

Fists clenched, he leads the group away back up the stairs to a kitchen or staff dining hall where they run into more guards. Throwing a blade at the closest person, Mahanon runs forward and yanks the dagger out, slicing the blade through the warrior’s torso.

Next to him, Cassandra picks up the fallen guard’s sword and joins the fight. Her blows don't land as hard as he expects, but then he remembers that she's been in captivity for a year. That she's standing and fighting is already impressive, never mind her ending the battle so decisively and within minutes.

Dorian seems to notice this too, sidling over and muttering, “That's not normal. Are you sure she's still human?”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “I wasn't sure even before this.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Cassandra says lightly, putting her new sword away.

“If she didn't get her hands on a sword, she probably would've just punched them to death, isn't that right, Seeker?” Varric says with a grin.

She makes a noise but doesn't deny the claim.

They spread out and search the room for tools and information. He and Varric split up to work on the locks to the side rooms. Pushing the door open, he leaps back when a blast of fire flies towards his face. Almost immediately, a barrier forms around him. Protected, Mahanon pulls out his daggers and lunges towards the mage only to have the man teleport away.

Whirling around, he winces when a bolt of lightning shatters the barrier. He crouches down, ready to dodge the next attack when the mage suddenly groans and crumples to the ground with an arrow lodged in his back.

Mahanon narrows his eyes and looks up to find Varric kissing his crossbow. “Bianca, baby, how I’ve missed you.”

Dorian turns to him and arches a brow. He shrugs. “That’s normal. Let’s move on.”

They finish clearing out the side rooms and continue moving up in the castle until they hear a cry. Cassandra frowns. “That’s Leliana’s voice.”

The four of them rush over to the room to find the spymaster strung up by the arms. Taking advantage of the distraction, she swings her legs up and wraps them around the guard’s throat. Even though she looks two steps from death, Mahanon can only watch in awe as she snaps his neck with her thighs.

“Maker, is there no one normal in this little group of yours?” Dorian mutters under his breath.

“You might want to try Curly, he's probably your best shot,” he hears Varric answer as he rushes forward to release the shackles around Leliana’s wrists only to have her level her glare at him.

“You should be dead.”

He hesitates for a moment before returning to his task. “Alexius threw us into the future and now we’re trying to find a way back to stop him before any of this happens,” he explains quickly as the cuffs come undone with a click.

Leliana falls to her knees and takes a moment before pushing herself up. Mahanon keeps his distance, waiting to see her reaction. “So you’re telling me that there’s a way to undo all of this? That none of this had to happen?”

Shaking his head, he replies, “We won’t know until we get that amulet from Alexius.”

Suddenly, the spymaster is in his face and he parries the incoming knife with a dagger only to find another at his throat. From the opposite end of the room, he can hear the others protesting. “How do I know you’re who you say you are and not some demon from the Elder One’s army?”

Tensing, he looks the woman in the eye and hisses, “You _don’t_. You have no choice but to take my word for it, just like how I had to take you on your word that the Inquisition would keep my clan and my people safe from the Chantry.”

Leliana seems to consider his words before lowering the knife and walking away, apparently satisfied. “Alexius is still in the castle. We must hurry before the Elder One notices you’re here.”

Cassandra follows her out into the hallway while Varric and Dorian linger behind. “Are you alright?”

He nods and puts his blade away. “I’m fine. It wasn’t entirely unwarranted.”

Varric sighs. “And here I was convinced no one could match the Seeker in violence. Guess that’s what happens when you try to go against someone who fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden.”

Rubbing where the knife was pointed at his neck, Mahanon shrugs and makes his way over to the door. “We should probably follow them before they flatten the castle.”

Following suit, Dorian shakes his head. “Given what I’ve seen so far, that would only be thematically appropriate.”

\--

With the help of the Seeker and spymaster, it doesn’t take them very long to reach the courtyard where Dorian comes to a sudden halt causing him to crash into the man’s back. Mahanon frowns and rubs his nose, complaint loaded and ready on the tip of his tongue. But then he follows Dorian’s gaze upwards to the sky and feels his jaw go slack.

The Breach has taken up the entire sky. Grey clouds circle it ominously, occasionally throwing down bolts of lightning and crackling with thunder. The sun is nowhere in sight; leaving the swirling vortex to light up the skies with its eerie green glow.

“Maker, what’s happened to Thedas?” he hears Dorian mutter in awe.

Cassandra doubles back with a sympathetic frown. “This is what will happen if you don’t go back to your time and seal the Breach. Every day, more demons pour from the sky. There is no place unaffected. Nowhere is beyond the Elder One’s reach.”

Furrowing his brows, he thinks of his clan in the Free Marches. If they’re by the Silent Plains, there won’t be anywhere for them to hide. But then, even in the forests, it’d be difficult to keep everyone safe with demons roaming about. The Keeper will be busy tending to the wounded and using her magic to keep their camp hidden. Ellana’s barriers are strong, but even with Nea’s help, they’re only one full-fledged mage and an apprentice.

“Hey Freckles, whatever’s making you make that face, stop thinking about it,” Varric’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “Concentrate on going back and stopping the Breach from growing into this mess.”

He looks down and releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “You’re right. We need to get to Alexius and fix this.”

“There’s no ‘fixing’ this,” Leliana snaps at him. “It may seem like a simple mistake for you to go back and correct but we had to _live_ through it.”

Mahanon frowns and turns to Dorian. “When we go back and stop Alexius, what happens to everyone here? Will they stop existing?”

Tearing his gaze from the sky, Dorian furrows his brows in thought. “That’s a possibility. It’s either that or this timeline will continue running its course.”

“But that would mean—”

“Stop,” Cassandra interjects. “Don’t try to save us. Just focus on getting back. This world can’t be saved anymore. None of us can be saved anymore.”

Just then, a ball of green hurls down towards them, breaking a rift open in the courtyard. As demons spew from the tear, Leliana frowns. “We can’t waste any more time. He knows you’re here.”

They fight off the demons and he closes the rift before they take off running again. “It’s a good thing you still have that mark, Freckles. I think you should keep it,” Varric says when they come across another rift in the main hall along with a group of Venatori.

“Yeah, I guess it's pretty useful every now and then,” he deadpans, drawing his daggers and leaping over the railings and burying the blades into a despair demon.

From above him, Leliana draws the bow she picked up off a guard they defeated earlier and fires, hitting one of the mages in the arm while Cassandra goes in and finishes the job. The entire room is chaos. He’s vaguely aware of Varric taking aim from the top of a set of stairs while Dorian has joined him on the main floor, casting barriers and elemental mines across the battlefield.

It’s only when he hears someone call out “The rift! Now!” that he knows to raise his hand to close the tear in the middle of the room. Panting, Mahanon looks around to see bodies of mages and demons strewn across the floor. While his first instinct is to go rummage through the bodies, he’s all too aware of the time limit that’s been imposed on them.

“We don’t have time to look through the whole castle,” he says, straightening up and flicking the blood and sinew off his daggers. “Where could Alexius be hiding?”

“He’s been locking himself away in the research lab, his personal room, and the throne room. Whatever task the Elder One’s assigned him, he hasn’t been successful. It sounds like he’s been growing desperate as of late,” Leliana tells him. It doesn’t surprise him that even while tortured, she managed to pick up so much information from the guards. “The closest one to here is the throne room through that door over there.”

Mahanon nods. “Let’s go check that one first then. If he's not there, we'll have to split up.”

They run over and throw the door open to find a large, dark room, lit by torches of green fire. Shaking the uncomfortable feeling off, he steps inside and looks around. At once, he notices someone sitting on the throne and narrows his eyes, holding a hand out to stop the others.

“Alexius.”

“I knew you’d be back,” the man says, standing up; his features shadowed by the fireplace behind him. “I didn’t know when exactly, but I knew I wasn’t successful in killing you. And what a time you’ve picked to show up.” A weak laugh. He sounds drained and defeated already. “It doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters anymore. The Elder One is on his way for the both of us.”

He frowns and walks forward. “Why do this, Alexius? You weren’t like this before. How can anything be worth this?”

Alexius arches a brow. “You speak as if you know me, Herald. I did this, all of this, for my country. For my son. I was prepared to do anything, but it’s already too late.”

A figure hobbles out from a side room towards the fire and both Mahanon and Dorian let out a gasp. Skin taut and eyes sunken in, the feeble figure is completely expressionless and barely recognizable. “Is that…Felix? Oh, Alexius, what have you done?” Dorian asks in horror, his voice tight and face pale.

“I did what I had to, Dorian,” Alexius tells his former student. “It was the only way to save him.”

Mahanon shakes his head, swallowing his nausea. “Look at him. That’s not even Felix anymore. You didn't save your son, you just preserved his corpse. Give us the amulet, Alexius, while we can still fix this.”

“The amulet,” Alexius mutters quietly, taking the pendant out of his chest pocket. “This useless amulet. If only I could travel back to when Felix was attacked then this could all be fixed! But it’s always _you_ ,” he shouts, raising the amulet up in the air. “The timeline always starts at you!”

“Don’t,” Leliana’s voice suddenly cuts in.

They all turn to see her with a knife at Felix’s throat. Alexius immediately retracts his hand and pleads, “No, please! Felix has nothing to do with this! I’ll do what you want, just let him go!”

He glances over at Dorian before offering, “Give us the amulet and we'll let him go, Alexius.”

“Take it!” Alexius cries, thrusting the pendant out. “I just want my son back!”

Leliana narrows her eyes. “And I want the world back.”

“Leliana, _stop_!”

Without thinking, Mahanon throws one of his blades at her.

Knocking it out of the air easily, she scowls. “You would side with the Venatori?”

“I would stop unnecessary bloodshed,” he snaps back. “Alexius is giving us the amulet! If you kill Felix, we'll just waste what little time we don't have fighting him! I'm sorry you suffered, and I'm sorry if you may have to suffer even after we leave, but you're supposed to be the Inquisition’s spymaster so cool your head and _think_ about your actions.”

Slowly, she lowers her blade and shoves Felix, still unaware of his situation, toward his father and snatches the amulet from his hand. Walking back down the stairs, she scowls and tosses it at Dorian, who runs over to check on the father and son. “Stop wasting our time and cast your spell.”

Unfazed by her hostility, Dorian holds it up and studies the amulet with a satisfied nod. “This is the right one, so that's a good start. I'll need about an hour to come up with a counter spell.”

Leliana whirls around. “An _hour_!?”

Suddenly, there's a tremor. The walls quiver and dust and debris come falling from the ceiling. “It's the Elder One! He's here!” Alexius cries, cowering. He quickly takes Felix’s hand and leads him out of the room through a back door.

“I don't think you'll get that hour, Dorian,” Mahanon mutters, taking a step back from the main door. “You better start on your spell.”

“Fine, but you'll need to stay close to me. It won't do anyone any good if you're left behind,” Dorian says.

The amulet in the mage’s hand begins to levitate and glow. He assumes it's a promising sign. But then out of the corner of his eye, he notices Varric and Cassandra nodding at one another.

“You work on your spell and go back. We'll hold them off as long as we can,” Cassandra says, drawing her sword.

Mahanon’s eyes widen. “You can't! You'll both die out there!”

“Freckles, have you seen us? We're already dead,” Varric reassures him.

Cassandra nods. “The only way to save us is to make sure this never happens.”

Loading Bianca, Varric sighs loudly as he marches to the door. “I'm agreeing with the Seeker. _This_ is how I know the world's coming to an end.”

Torn between running after them and staying put, he grits his teeth and closes his eyes when the sounds of battle reach his ears.

“Don't you move,” Leliana orders, drawing her bow. She shoots a glare over at Dorian. “You only have as much time left as I have arrows.”

Dorian swallows hard and nods, concentrating on the amulet. He doesn't look up even when the doors fly open and the horde of demons barge in, tossing the lifeless and battered bodies of their comrades flying to the side.

Leliana snaps to action, letting loose arrow after arrow as she marches forward, reciting the Chant. Mahanon watches with growing nausea as the demons overwhelm her.

With no one left in the way, the demons set their sights on him and come barreling forward. Withdrawing his daggers, he takes a step forward only to hear a shout of triumph as a green light suddenly engulfs him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it wouldn't really be In Hushed Whispers without Leliana's neck-snapping thighs.
> 
> Lasa adahl su nar masa = Shove a tree up your ass (from [this very fun article](http://fenxshiral.tumblr.com/post/112639210208/we-know-fenedhis-is-a-common-swear-word-but-are))


	6. Interlude

When he comes to again, he's lying on a soft albeit scratchy surface with heavy covers draped over him. It’s no Antivan silk or the soft furs of some unfortunate exotic animal, but given how warm it is compared to the crisp morning air, he wants nothing more than to slip back to sleep.

He tries to move but quickly realizes there's a person in his arms. The figure mumbles his name sleepily and leans up to kiss him.

Ah, it was one of _those_ nights then.

And he's not even hungover.

Happily returning the kiss, he's already sifting through his brain for memories as to how he got here and what excuse he can give to get out.

Not giving him the chance, the man deepens the kiss and wraps his arms around him and pauses in confusion. “Dorian, when’d you get dressed? Did you go somewhere?”

The voice is a familiar one even with the half-slurred words and he opens his eyes in alert. There, in his arms, is Mahanon, propping himself up onto his elbow and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

Except it's _not_ Mahanon—not the one he knows in any case. This elf’s hair is long, almost as long as when he was in Tevinter only better kept, and while his eyes hold the same intelligence and astuteness, they lack a certain sharpness to them.

This is not the Mahanon he just got thrown through time with.

Suddenly, the events from however long ago come rushing back and he pales. He must've messed up the spell then. But if he's here with this new Mahanon, then where did _his_ Mahanon go?

Surely, sending the so called ‘Herald of Andraste’ hurling towards certain death won't go well with anyone.

Maybe he _does_ have it in him to become a successful Tevinter villain after all, a voice in his mind pipes up. His success rate is already higher than Alexius _and_ his Elder One’s.

Felix will never let him hear the end of this.

As he internally panics, the elf sits up and studies him, and it's only then that Dorian realizes that he's fully undressed and looks perfectly comfortable with nothing but a blanket pooling in his lap. There's also a distinct lack of scars on him and it only serves to reinforce the fact that this isn't the same Mahanon who offered him brown stew mere days ago and tamed a nug of all things.

Just as he thinks this, Non-Mahanon says, “You're not my Dorian.” And then as he's about deny the claim with a fabricated story, Non-Mahanon asks, “Alexius?”

Dorian blinks and relaxes a little. “Oh, that means you've already been through that bit then.”

Non-Mahanon laughs and leans forward to stretch out his back as if it were no big deal. “Yes, a few times. Poor Dorian. Probably not the best way to start the day.”

“Did I just send a very nude version of myself off to face a horde of demons?” he asks, now outwardly panicking.

The elf nods, looking perfectly calm. “Don't worry, he's been through this even more times than I have. There's a plan in place. One of the hazards of using Redcliffe Castle as a base of operation I suppose.”

He looks around to find that this is, in fact, a very intact version of the hell he just traversed through, tacky dog statues and all. Jumping out of bed, he pokes his head out the window and marvels at the distinct lack of greenness and impending sense of doom. “That's a promising sight. No gaping hole in the sky.”

“Just the first of many steps here, I'm afraid,” Non-Mahanon tells him, the mark on his hand glowing as if to make a point. “Would you like something to eat before you give the spell another try?”

Considering the offer, Dorian finds that he doesn't have much of an appetite even underneath all the anxiety. “I can’t just go back to my own time without that stupid, reckless elf.”

“Who said anything about sending you back alone?” Non-Mahanon, he really should stop addressing him like that in his head, says lightly. “I'll help you find that stupid, reckless elf and then you can go home.”

Dorian arches a brow. “You’ll help me? You sound very knowledgeable about all of this. Are you a mage in this timeline?”

A shrug. “No, but I've lived through it a few times, remember? My Dorian’s given me pointers to pass on in order to expedite the process.”

Standing with his arms crossed, he nods. “That does sound like me. Dashingly handsome _and_ resourceful.”

Non-Mahanon gives a lazy half-smile. “I'll be sure to pass on the self-admiration. Did you want to leave yourself a fruit basket as well?”

He may consider _his_ Mahanon a friend, but _this_ one seems entirely too comfortable with him—every version of him. And that's _after_ discounting the kissing and the nudity.

“No, no, every Dorian should know that fruit baskets are more fun sending than receiving,” he mutters lightly, swallowing down his discomfort. “So, about those pointers you mentioned?”

Unperturbed, the elf gets out of bed, bending down to retrieve his clothes off the floor. “Do you have the amulet?”

Tearing his gaze away, he takes it off his neck and pauses when a sudden thought strikes him. “Wait, how do I know I can trust you? For all I know, you're a demon working with the Elder One or an illusion.”

With his pants halfway up, Non-Mahanon rolls his eyes and scoffs and _that_ is almost enough to convince him. “Elgar’nan, whatever shall I do now that you've seen through my fiendish plans?” the elf deadpans.

“Ha ha, you are a delight in every timeline,” Dorian quips back. “But back to the point. How do I know I can trust you? You've been through this multiple times so you should expect this by now, no?”

“Sometimes you forget to ask,” Non-Mahanon replies lightly, pulling his shirt on. He walks to the drawer and pulls out a letter and hands it over.

Taking it, he unfolds the piece of paper and arches a brow.

It's from himself.

Clearing his throat, he reads,

‘ _Dearest Dorian,_

_All of this skepticism is very healthy and intelligent; however, time is of the essence and I'd rather not throw you back to the demon horde you have no doubt landed me in. Remember: it's magic you helped develop. You'd know if it was a trick. Now listen to the sarcastic elf. I wouldn't trust myself to anyone else._

_Lovingly you,_

_Dorian Pavus_ ’

“I do know how to appeal to myself,” Dorian sighs. “Very well, let me hear these pointers of yours.”

Non-Mahanon arches a brow. “That's it? I thought I'd have to give you a talking to.”

He nods and concedes, “While that would no doubt be very convincing, I am, as this letter states, on a bit of a time crunch.”

“Alright, so the two constants we seem to have established are you will always end up in or around Redcliffe castle, and you cannot go to a time before the Breach. To control the spell, you have to focus on the destination,” Non-Mahanon says. “You got the spell right, but the intentions were a little off. Right before the spell hit, you were probably picturing somewhere safe and warm.”

“And demon-free and dry,” Dorian mutters. “So I wound up here?”

The elf shrugs. “Met your criteria, didn't it? Now, your Mahanon probably had something different in mind if you're the only one here.”

Thinking back, he swallows hard. “The demons were coming at us and he had his daggers out. Vishante kaffas.”

Non-Mahanon nods. “Yeah, pretty much that. You should hurry. I can take care of myself but sometimes even I can be overwhelmed.”

Dorian frowns. “But how do I find my version of you if he's been temporally displaced?”

“It's simple—or, I hope it is. Cast your spell and concentrate on _your_ Mahanon. In every timeline, there is something that sets us apart from ourselves. Without that intention, I don't know where your spell will send you next,” Non-Mahanon explains, handing him a lyrium potion he dug out from the same drawer.

Downing the potion in one gulp, Dorian wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and sighs, “Recklessness and mouthiness is probably a universal constant with you.” Thinking for a moment, he takes a deep breath and nods. “Alright, I think I've got something.”

Smiling, Non-Mahanon gestures for him to begin his spell. “Best of luck, Dorian. It was a pleasure meeting this version of you.” Then a little more seriously, he pulls a kit out and starts taking out the bandages and potions.

He does his best to focus on the spell, but he can't help but sneak a glance over.

As if noticing, the elf waves him off. “Nosy. It's just in case. Concentrate on your magic.”

Dorian huffs and turns back to the amulet. Closing his eyes, he pictures old scars and shaking hands. But more than that, he pictures drinking on the roof of a carriage and the bold black strokes of his tattoo highlighting those sharp golden eyes.

Trying to keep that image in his mind, he works on the spell. It comes a little more easily this time, but his mind protests loudly against casting the powerful spell again so soon.

Slowly, the magic builds until everything clicks in place and he releases the tension, snapping a portal into existence.

Although he wants to say goodbye to Non-Mahanon, he can't risk mixing the two up and ending up back here again. Instead, he keeps his eyes closed as the magic engulfs him.

\--

Setting a set of robes on the bed, Mahanon sits and waits.

Hours pass when suddenly, there's a flash of green and Dorian reappears, dressed in stolen robes and looking very put off. “Perhaps I should start sleeping with a staff from now on—no, stop smiling. Dirty.”

He quickly a schools his face into something more neutral, doing his best to feign ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“I know very well that I have a perfectly good staff and it's practically magic, but I need a very different one to fend off a demon horde,” Dorian chides, approaching him.

Mahanon laughs. “I'd pay to see you fight off demons with your staff.” Wrapping his arms around the man's waist, he sighs. “I'm glad you're alright. Welcome back.”

“Was there ever any doubt?” Dorian runs a hand through his hair. “I hope I didn't make you wait too long. How was I this time?”

“Mostly cooperative,” he sighs. “He got out in time at least. I hope he finds his way.”

\--

When he comes to again, he finds himself staring at the sky, clear and sunny. Dorian sits up with a frown, trying to orientate himself. Right, time travel, lost elf, and now he's...

Somewhere in the Hinterlands is the only thing the endless expanse of greenery tells him.

With a huff, he pushes himself up onto his feet and brushes himself off. Remembering what Non-Mahanon said, he begins trudging towards the top of the hill to look for Redcliffe Castle.

His knees are weak and he's all but depleted of mana, leaving him light-headed but not in a good alcohol-related way. Before he can rest though, he needs to find that stupid, reckless elf.

“Horrible. Insane. No good. Inconsiderate. Darkspawn of an elf will be the death of me,” Dorian grumbles with each reluctant step.

When he finally reaches the top of the hill, he spots a pair of guards patrolling nearby and quickly ducks out of sight.

“Can't believe we're missing it,” one guard complains loudly.

“Yeah, well, once you've seen one execution you've seen them all,” the other reassures him, though she sounds less than convinced.

The first guard scoffs. “With a name like the 'Herald of Andraste’? With all the Vints around helping the Chantry? We're missing out on history!”

“Once we're through with this group of heretics, we'll get rid of the next,” she says confidently. “Two birds and all that, you know?”

Dorian pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs to himself, “Of course you'd throw yourself into a timeline like this. Are all Mahanons like this?”

Quickly brushing the thought aside and straightening his robes, he struts over to the guards who quickly stiffen at the sight of him.

“Excuse me, would you kindly point the way to the execution? Magister Alexius would be awfully cross if I were to miss the party, historical event and whatnot,” Dorian says lightly.

“Historic event! I told you!” the male guard whispers harshly.

The female guard quickly elbows her partner and asks him, “You're with the group, huh? How’d you wind up out here? Make your way over towards the windmill there, the one that spins kind of funny? Yeah, that big one. It just hasn’t been the same since someone tried riding the sails. Anyway, from there, the guards there can escort you inside.”

He nods and starts off towards the castle with a forced casual stride. “Thank you, you keep up the good work now.”

As he leaves, he hears the male guard hum in wonder. “Didn't think they knew that word.”

Once out of sight, Dorian picks up the pace towards Redcliffe Castle. “Execution!” he mutters under his breath, breaking into a run. “How does that elf get himself into these things?”

Even as he makes it to the main road leading to the castle gates, he already knows he won't make it in time.

With desperation gnawing at his heels, he continues running. Surely Mahanon's gotten himself out of stickier situations before? He didn't go through three different timelines just to have the elf die on him now.

Just then, he hears galloping.

“Look out!”


	7. Chapter 7

With spots of green blinding his vision, Mahanon blinks and looks up just in time to see a blade coming towards his face. Quickly swinging a dagger up to parry, he scurries back to distance himself from the new threat.

A glance around tells him that he's no longer in the hellish future Alexius had thrown them into. Instead, he seems to be in the dungeons of a castle with no windows to tell him what time of the day it is; suffocating enough that he has to dig his nails into his palm to stay focused. All around him are very human templars, and he hasn't quite decided whether that's an improvement or not.

There's a grunt from behind him and he turns to see Varric and Cassandra also surrounded but alive and free of red lyrium. His stomach churns at the memory of their last memory while his mind struggles to keep up with the turn of events.

“Varric,” he calls out.

“Yeah? Don't know about you but I'm kind of busy over here!” the dwarf calls back.

Mahanon does another full circle, daring the guards to approach while looking for a way to break through and join the others. “I need you to summarize everything that's happened so far.”

Varric fires a shot and takes a step back only to find his back to the wall. “Seriously, Plucky?”

Plucky. That's new.

Already off to a bad start then.

“I'm not just trying to make small talk here!” he shouts, dodging a mace.

“Fine! The Breach made the Conclave go boom. The Seeker found and nearly killed you. You tried to close the Breach. It only sort of worked. The Inquisition started. We came to Redcliffe to ask the mages for help but they all joined the Vints who teamed up with the Chantry who somehow roped the templars back.”

He stifles a groan.

Still not his world then.

If anything, this one’s even worse.

Suddenly, one of the templars charges him. Mahanon leaps up and over the man only to be tackled down by another person in full armour.

The impact knocks the air out of him and leaves him in a daze. Somewhere to the side, he can hear Cassandra cry out for him as his arms are bound behind him with rope and shackles. When his vision refocuses, he sees a knife at his throat and his comrades standing with their hands in the air in surrender.

“What's going on here?” a voice comes from the doorway. A mother comes into view and looks down at the scene disdainfully.

“Caught the 'Herald’ trying to escape, Your Reverence,” the man behind him hisses, pressing the knife a little closer.

Having landed in the middle of it, Mahanon remains quiet, settling for an unimpressed glare as one of the templars disarms him.

It's Cassandra who speaks up for him. “You were trying to murder him!”

“Silence!” the mother orders. “They are to be hanged in front of the public! Bring them up. It's time to bring an end to this nonsense.”

With a sword to his back, he's forcefully dragged up the stairs by rope around his neck. Behind him, one of the templars mutters, “Time to get rid of the Vints too.”

They wind their way up floor after floor until they reach a hallway flooded with an eerie green light from the Breach. Momentarily blinded, Mahanon flinched and turns away. There's an impatient shout and he's yanked forward again.

Stumbling, he pulls down on his chain and grunts as the templar yanks him back onto his feet in response. It's only a moment, but it's enough for him to slip a lock pick into his hand.

He can hear the crowd waiting in anticipation outside and it makes him think back to the mansion in Tevinter only he doesn't have an escape plan this time. As the faces of Redcliffe come into view and the mother begins addressing the crowd, he starts looking around the courtyard for a route out.

The face of Felix makes him pause again. The mage looks determined underneath the stiff facade of neutrality and Mahanon has to fight his instinct to relax. If his comrades aren't the same ones from his world, surely, he won't know this Felix and the strangers around him either.

Mahanon continues looking around, half expecting to find this world's Dorian lurking in the crowd. When he doesn't see anything, he curses under his breath and stills himself.

If these shackles are like the kind Cassandra had him in before, they're probably only two pronged. He can probably pop them off right before the floor drops out. If he's lucky, the remaining rope will give him enough leeway to swing his arms under his feet and grab the noose before he snaps his neck. If he's even luckier, they won't cover his eyes.

Either way it's a long shot at best but he doesn't have another choice.

The crowd stills and he looks up to see that the mother has finished speaking. “Bring the heretics forward.”

He can't hear his footsteps over his pounding heart. The noose has been prepared for him and Mahanon swallows hard. Without bothering to put a bag over his head, they place the rope around his neck for another and he looks out at the sea of faces before turning to watch the executioner.

Suddenly, there's a shout.

Murmurs kick up and the mother turns to the executioner and yells, “Do it!”

The world seems to slow down when the man pulls the lever. At once, he leaps up and unlocks the shackles around one wrist and tries to loop his hands under his feet. He gets his arms to in front of him just as he falls and the noose tightens around his neck.

He won't make it.

Just then, there's a glint and a snapping noise and he's suddenly on his back on the uneven ground. He lies there in a daze, waiting for throbbing in the back of his head to fade as shouts can be heard from above.

Blinking, eventually the world stops spinning and reality comes rushing back. Pushing through his stupor, Mahanon sits up and groans as his back protests the movement after the rough landing. Still, a sore back is better than dislocated arms.

Gingerly, he sits a little straighter and pulls out a knife that had been tucked away in the lining of his sleeve and cuts through the remaining rope around his wrists.

Arms now freed, Mahanon pushes himself to his feet and finds his way back up to the platform where a riot had broken out. There's a shout and a sword swings at him. He ducks and stumbles only to look up and see the woman run through by a disgruntled Cassandra who gives him a nod of acknowledgement before turning to find her next opponent.

Mahanon reaches down and picks up the sword of the fallen templar and tries to remember what little swordplay he bothered to learn. Crafting them is one thing but he never really got around to learning how to use them.

Using both hands to parry a blow, he feels the soreness in his back crop back up and clumsily ducks away and lets Varric fire a finishing blow, Bianca safely back in his arms. “So what's the plan?” he shouts over the fighting.

“We wait for help to come to us,” the dwarf replies, ducking out of the as arrows fly at him from the turret. Mahanon wishes he could get his hands on one of those bows but the archers are beyond his reach.

Amidst the crowd, he can see figures making their way towards them. There's the swing of an axe and arrows flying every which way. A smile of disbelief makes its way to his lips.

“We have no time to lose. We have to go!” Cassandra suddenly shouts.

Before he can voice his agreement, suddenly, he's thrown off the platform and braces himself for the impact to find none as an arm wraps around his waist and swings him around back until he's sitting atop a horse. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you, Boss.”

He looks up to see the Iron Bull swing his axe down, making room for the horse to turn and run towards the gate. Behind them, they're joined by Sera and Blackwall, carrying his other companions. “Did you see that shot? Was wicked good, yeah?”

“I certainly felt it. It was amazing, Sera,” Mahanon answers, rubbing his neck.

Looking further back to the courtyard and his would-be execution site, he can see the guards and Tevinter mages starting to clash, each accusing the other of sabotage—all the better for their escape.

They race past the guards and through the gates to freedom. The galloping jostles his back and he lets out a quiet hiss of pain. Reaching back, Mahanon furrows his brows at the sight of blood on his gloved fingers. “Got a potion, Bull?”

“For your back? Yeah, I've got one somewhere. Don't pull it out though, you should wait for a healer,” Bull says.

Frowning, Mahanon leans back, trying to catch a glimpse of the wound. He must've fallen onto something sharp when he landed earlier.

Happy to down the potion to help ease the pain a little, he tries to take his mind off the injury and asks, “Where are the others?”

Bull shrugs. “Vivienne is rallying help in Val Royeaux and your advisors are making their way there too. Must be nice to have the Empress on your side. Dalish went to warn the clans and still no sign of Solas.”

Mahanon cocks his head in confusion. Then he remembers Solas confessing that he'd been on the verge of running away when they first found him amidst the rubble. “That's a shame,” he mutters quietly.

As the horses continue running down the road when they spot a figure ahead and Cassandra shouts, “Look out!”

Bull tugs on the reins and they skid to a halt. Peeling himself from the qunari's back, Mahanon can hear a long string of Tevinter swear words and peers out from the side, pleased. “Dorian, there you are!”

Immediately stopping mid-cuss, Dorian's eyes widen in recognition, equal part relief and exasperation. “So you _are_ here, you rotten, no good—”

“Touching as this is,” Sera calls out impatiently, “the templars aren't _that_ far behind. So unless you want to, like, get another rope around your neck, let's get a move on! I'm good but don't push your luck with a second time, yeah?”

“Do you know this man, Herald?” Blackwall asks, a hand on his sword already.

Mahanon nods. “He’s a friend. We should bring him or I'll get another lecture.”

“Ha, if I remember correctly, the one doing the lecturing was you,” the mage mutters.

After Dorian climbs up onto Blackwall's horse behind Varric, Mahanon gestures at his face. “I don't know if you noticed, but you have a nosebleed.”

Dorian reaches up and dabs at his nose. “Ah, side effects were to be expected, I suppose. I don't know if _you_ noticed, but you have been impaled by a piece of wood.”

That solves that mystery then.

“Yes, that's a bit of a problem,” he says lightly. “We'll talk after we get away from this place.”

Taking that as his cue, Bull tugs on the reins and signals for the horse to continue.

\--

They don't stop until they're in a small clearing deep inside a forest. By then, the potion's worn off and he's dizzy with pain. Helped down onto the ground, Mahanon promptly sits down and cradles his head to stop the world from spinning.

“So is there a healer or should I just pull it out and splash a potion on it?” he asks.

“There's a healer,” a new voice joins them.

Mahanon turns his head, sweat beading from the pain. It's Dorian who speaks for him. “Felix? Is that you? You look...well.”

Felix looks around bewildered and perfectly healthy. “Yes? I am? This _was_ the plan, wasn't it? To meet here after rescuing the Herald?”

Dorian shrugs and gives an offhanded wave. “Yes, sure, we can discuss that after. First, we should get this one patched up before he bleeds out.” He casts a glance over and grins. “Reminds you of the good old times, doesn't it?”

He raises a hand and flips the mage off.

With Felix's help, Mahanon's set onto his stomach. Bull kindly gives him a leather strap to bite down on seeing as his gloves are still covered in demon blood. “Are you ready? Dorian, on the count of three, pull the stake out.”

The sudden rush of pain sends flashes of white through his vision. It's quickly dulled by the warmth of healing magic and another potion. He passes out to the feeling of the flesh of his back flimsily knit itself back together.

\--

When he opens his eyes again, the sun is setting and a fire's been made. “Oh good, you're up, Herald,” Felix greets him, breaking away from his conversation with Varric. A ways away, Blackwall is tending to the fire, sparing him only a brief nod.

“How are you feeling, Plucky?”

He moves to sit up and grunts in pain and stops. “Kind of like I got stabbed in the back.”

Varric laughs. “Well, you're not wrong.”

“Please don't try to sit up yet,” Felix says. “Your back may be healed but it's still fresh so don't agitate it or it'll reopen. If all goes well, the tenderness will go away after a few days.”

Mahanon blinks. “You can do magic?”

The Felix he knows could barely slow the bleeding when his wrists were slashed open.

The mage cocks his head but then nods. “Ah, yes, Dorian explained the situation to us.”

Shaking his head, Varric mutters, “Everything that happens to you is weird.”

He manages a smile. “You've said that to me before.”

“It's hard to believe time magic actually works but here you are. The Felix in your world is more of an academic than a mage, Dorian said?”

“I believe my exact words were a ‘soft hearted fool who has more righteousness than mana and a penchant for mathematics’,” Dorian cuts in, smoothing out his moustache.

Felix laughs. “And yet you don't seem so different from my Dorian.”

Examining his fingers with a smile, Dorian says, “But of course. We Dorians are universally cursed by our charm and wit and magical prowess.”

He scoffs and props himself up onto his elbows. “Those aren't the first words that come to my mind.”

“Oh please, you wouldn't know good taste even if it came all the way from Tevinter and got stranded in time with you and then wound up in a world where he was being fed peeled grapes by a kindly lover only to tear himself away to find you at your latest execution,” Dorian retorts.

Mahanon furrows his brows, trying to digest all the information from that summary. Eventually he settles on asking, “Who peels their grapes?”

Opening and closing his mouth a few times, Dorian narrows his eyes. “Somehow you always know just what to say. We are going to have words about refining your barbaric ways when we get back to our world.”

He shakes his head and forces himself the rest of the way up onto his feet. “Sure, but let's focus on the getting back to our world part first. I have a feeling this world's Mahanon will need every minute he can get to live through this. Will you be alright, Dorian?”

Dorian rubs his nose and sniffs. “Probably. I'm more concerned about your back. Hopefully time travel isn't considered a strenuous activity. Thoughts?”

Felix shrugs. “It should hold. I don't think you have much of a choice though, do you?”

“No, I suppose not,” Dorian concedes. “With any luck, there'll be a healer handy on the other side. I trust you'll explain everything when your Dorian gets back, Young Alexius?”

“Yes, of course. Dorian would hate to be left out of any alternate universal gossip,” Felix says with a grin. Then turning to Mahanon, he dips his head ruefully. “I'm sorry I won't be able to join you on your journey in your time.”

Mahanon lowers his eyes. “Don’t be. I'm glad you'll be here for this one. Take care of yourself, Felix.”

He makes to hobble away through the trees after Dorian when Varric calls after him, “Hey, you oughta take these with you.” Furrowing his brows, he looks down to see a pair of daggers in the dwarf's hands. “You lost yours earlier, right? Can't have the great Herald of Andraste skipping worlds unarmed.”

Taking the daggers, the Paragon’s Luster edges gleam with sharpness and the handles are slightly weighted for balance. Mahanon examines them, humming with approval until he sees a familiar mark at the hilt of the blade. “I made these?”

“Good eye, Plucky. These are your spares—made them when you went on that crafting binge after we got back from the desert. Too good to sell off like common goods, apparently,” Varric tells him. “I'm sure you'll appreciate them going to a good cause.”

“These are fine blades,” he mutters. “Thank you, Varric. I'll put them to good use.”

Cradling the blades close, he makes his way over to the clearing where Dorian's waiting, looking deep in thought. He eventually breaks the silence to explain, “He's healthy in this world. Strange, isn't it? It's his mother that got sick here but Felix made it to Val Royeaux just fine. Alexius still went mad either way.”

“It's comforting to know it wasn't inevitable,” Mahanon replies quietly.

“Unlike your fate, it seems.”

Making a face, he frowns. “Really?”

Dorian nods. “You and that mark are inseparable. From what I gather, it's a universal constant. Or, at the very least, it is where my magic can reach.”

“I take no comfort in that,” Mahanon mutters. “So how do we do this? If you managed to find me, I assume you figured the spell out?”

“Yes, I was given a few tips in the last world,” Dorian answers.

Mahanon arches a brow. “From your grape peeling lover?”

A huff. “So you _were_ listening. It was relayed to me from the me of that world but via my helpful lover who convinced me with a letter penned by myself.”

Walking over towards the trunk of a tree, he plucks a sprig of elfroot and starts chewing on it and shakes his head. “You've lost me. _How_ do we get back?”

Dorian makes a face at him before giving him a half shrug. “Apparently as with most magic, it's all about intention. The easiest way is to picture where you want to go,” he says as though obvious. “It'll be fascinating to see if this works.”

“Great. A vote of confidence if I've ever heard one,” Mahanon mutters, strapping his new daggers to his belt, unable to reach behind him without pulling at his wound. “What should I picture? I assume thinking of home won't work.”

Rubbing his chin, the mage hums in thought. “It's true if we picture different things, we may end up separated again. What's something that would work…” his voice trails off before he suddenly perks up. “Yes, of course! Your pettiness!”

His ears twitch. “Excuse me?”

“Picture Alexius’ face when he realizes his little ploy failed. I suspect that will get us to the right time and place,” Dorian tells him with a very pleased grin.

“I suppose that could work,” he concedes. “I guess we'll find out. Let's do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, life is kicking my ass. Hopefully I'll have more time eventually?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://holyshitdragonage.tumblr.com/post/116776587601/jelenedrake-dragonageconfessions) was my injury reference
> 
> So that teaser, eh????

“I can't say I missed this,” he grumbles, face buried in his arms as he lies on the bed. After having convinced Leliana and her people to return to Haven first, Cassandra managed to procure rooms at the tavern for his remaining companions.

“You're lucky I was even nearby,” Sanna scolds, hands over his back, closing the wound once more.

“She's not wrong,” Dorian contributes, voice muffled by the cloth held to his nose.

He huffs and shoots, “Maybe you should stuff that silk handkerchief up your nose.”

Dorian makes an incoherent noise. “Please, this isn't silk. Blood is so hard to wash out of silk. And don't be snippy with me, I didn't think it'd rupture like that, though I'm not surprised you hid it.”

Mahanon clenches his fist and stifles a hiss. The sheets smell distinctly Fereldan—like barnyard hay with a hint of wet dog, and he does his best to not breathe it in. “I wasn't going to bring attention to my bloody back in front of the king of Ferelden. Are you sure we're back in the right world?”

Waving offhandedly, Dorian mutters, “Kaffas, let's hope so because I'm not trying that spell again. We can make do with this one. You even got to meet a celebrity. That’s a good start, isn’t it?”

He rolls his eyes. “Hooray. Lucky me.”

“Oh, don't make that face. It wouldn't be a proper reunion if you weren't in _some_ sort of mortal danger,” Dorian coos.

“That does seem to be a trend,” the healer mutters, gathering the bandages from her kit.

Smiling, Felix shakes his head, still ever the kindest of the three. “Don’t mind them. They’re not very good at expressing relief.”

Sanna huffs, putting her material down onto the bed. “Frankly, I’m still not over the shock that you're here at all. How _did_ you manage to survive the wilderness on your own? Sit up, I need to dress your wound.”

“Yes, I was hoping to ask as well,” Felix says. “If you don’t mind, what happened after we parted ways?”

Mahanon slowly sits up and pauses. “After we parted ways, huh?”

He tells them briefly of his journey back to the Free Marches—how the days turned into weeks into months. He tells them of the bandits and slavers he slayed and the dangers he escaped. He tells them about some of the people he freed along the way and the ones that pressed on, determined, and the others that turned back out of fear. He doesn’t tell them about the small group of dead slaves who had escaped their tormentors but had reached the end of their untimely end in the forest, ravaged with illness but free.

Judging by the shallow holes at the site, the strongest of them had attempted to bury their companions but fell before they could see it through.

Despite Nea’s request, he refused to stay to complete the task. They said a quick prayer for the fallen and continued on their journey.

Within days, Nea contracted a fever. He managed to find a cave to tend to her, but without any medical supplies, he was forced to leave her behind to search for better stocked travellers. Their entire bag of provisions was a steep price to pay but not one he ever regretted. He spent the next few days hunting, trying to replenish their lost supplies.

Mahanon doesn’t tell them any of this, instead, he turns to Felix and says, “I had to trade the comb away. I’m sorry.”

Felix blinks and lets out a laugh. “Why are you apologizing, Mahanon? It was yours.”

There’s a sudden knock at the door and Varric’s voice comes through, “You done in there, Freckles? I got you food! Some good old Fereldan classics: the leg of some unfortunate beast drizzled with grey slop and a side of piping hot grey slop.”

Everyone in the room exchange glances and Dorian suggests, “Maybe we can cauterize your wound with it?”

“It’d probably burn through my spinal cord.” He shakes his head and sighs, “I wonder if Fereldan food is this bad in every world.”

\--

That night, not wanting to stay cooped up in the small, unfamiliar room, he sneaks out and easily evades the Inquisition guards patrolling the inn. Going a little past the stables, he gives a slight start when he sees Cassandra standing there with her back to him.

Not wanting to catch the Seeker off-guard, Mahanon steps back and clears his throat.

Cassandra turns her head slightly and says quietly, “You should be resting.” Then glancing at the inn, she shakes her head. “We need better guards.”

“To be fair, I think they’re posted there to keep intruders out rather than me in,” he replies lightly.

“I suppose that’s true. No one would expect the Herald to sneak away so often,” Cassandra sighs. Instead of trying to usher him back inside as he expected, she glances up at the sky. “In the future you saw, you said the Breach swallowed everything. We know now more than ever that the Breach must be sealed.”

Mahanon nods. “There were rifts and demons everywhere. It was pretty bad.”

“‘Pretty bad’, yes,” Cassandra repeats with a light scoff.

Humming along, he thinks back to both of his narrow escapes. “You know, in that world, you said that my beliefs didn’t change the situation. Well, it wasn't those exact words, but you did say I could say whatever I wanted to you if I made it back.”

The Seeker turns away from the sky to face him. “You’re referring to the fact that you do not believe in the Maker,” she says matter-of-factly. “I have also given it some thought. Whether you believe the Maker sent you, the Breach is still in the sky, the mark is still on your hand, and you still decided to stay and help. Your actions speak louder than your beliefs and I apologize for overlooking that.”

Floored, Mahanon stares at her for a long moment before clearing his throat. “I—thank you, Cassandra. I appreciate it.” Rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, wanting to extend a gesture of goodwill back, he says, “Look, I’m not opposed to learning about the Maker,” Cassandra arches a brow and he quickly adds, “but only as a cultural exchange of sorts maybe!”

“Meaning?”

He shrugs. “How about for every titbit you throw my way about your Maker or Andraste, I get to tell you something about my gods? Or we can just not talk about it. That seems to work pretty well.”

Cassandra chuckles and crosses her arms. “No, that might not be a bad idea. The Divine always did encourage me to learn more about the world.”

\--

The next morning, standing at the crossroads in the Hinterlands with Varric and Cassandra standing down the path and waiting for him, Mahanon rubs the back of his neck, unsure how to say goodbye for another, perhaps the final time.

“I'm glad we got to meet again, Mahanon,” Felix says with a smile. “Thank you for your help.”

He shakes his head. “I should be the one saying that. We survived and even gathered vital information about this Elder One’s plans. None of it would’ve been possible without you. I wish I could do something for you in return.”

“You stopped Alexius, I’d say that’s a pretty good start,” Dorian says. “And supposedly, you’re going to stitch the sky back together.”

“Supposedly,” Mahanon mutters, looking up at the glowing green sky. “What will you do now?”

“We’ll go back to Tevinter. I’ll talk to the Magisterium and try to get them to listen. The Venatori will become a problem for them as well sooner or later,” Felix replies. “And I should sort out my father’s estate.”

Dorian scoffs. “I can’t imagine what kind of long lost relatives will show up at your door once news spreads back home. If only you had a guard of some sort, Young Alexius.”

“If you can convince Cassandra to let me go, I will happily leave this Inquisition and escort you back to Tevinter,” Mahanon jokes.

“Ha, I'm not falling for that,” Dorian says. “I've seen that woman take down an entire castle after being imprisoned and surrounded by red lyrium for a year.”

“I think I'll make do. There won't be a Tevinter to return to if you leave with me anyway,” Felix points out. “Will you be alright?”

He nods. “As Dorian mentioned, one of my companions is capable of bringing down an entire castle on her own.”

“You have all the poultices I packed for you?” Sanna asks, stepping forward.

Mahanon glances at the pack strapped to his horse hesitantly. “You gave me a lot. Shouldn't you keep some of those for yourselves just in case?”

The healer shakes her head. “No one needs them more than you. Besides, I have what I need, so you focus on not dying and fixing the sky.”

“Not dying and fixing the sky has been my goal since I got dragged into this,” he replies. “Please look after Felix.”

She smiles. “You don't have to worry about that.”

Felix reaches out and pulls him into a hug. “So I guess this is goodbye for real. Take care of yourself, Mahanon.”

Returning the embrace, he frowns. “Dareth shiral, Felix.” Stepping back, Mahanon glances over at Dorian and manages a smile. “For what it's worth, Master Pavus, there's no one I'd rather be stranded in time with.”

Dorian huffs. “Naturally. However, let's not do that again. Being sent through time three times in a single day is excessive even for you.” He waves a hand and walks his horse over. “Now, let's hurry and leave this horrible place before we're thrown into another reality again.”

Mahanon blinks, unable to hide his surprise. “You mean you're coming with us? What about Felix?”

“We talked it over. I wasn't going to at first but then he looked at me with such imploring eyes. 'But, Dorian! He's going to save the _world_! It'd be hopeless without your good looks and magical prowess!’” the mage mimics.

Felix laughs. “Yes, in those exact words. I'll be fine, Mahanon. Take care of Dorian for me.”

“Ha, we'll see about that,” Dorian mutters. “I expect to hear from you as soon as you return home, Felix. As we discussed.”

Replying in Tevene, Mahanon watches the mage's lips purse and quiver for a second before nodding. Seemingly satisfied, Felix smiles. “I'll be watching the sky for your success. Goodbye.”

\--

He never expected the Breach to be closed so easily and yet, looking up at the sky, nothing more than a dull scar remains. Holding a bottle of wine in one hand and Nugget in the other, the nug dangles idly, occasionally sniffing at the air.

Below, the people of Haven are drinking and dancing around the fire. The tavern is bright with festivities and even the advisors seem to be joining in.

Despite being alive and triumphant, Mahanon feels like the ground's about to swallow him whole.

“Not participating, Herald?”

Mahanon glances back at Blackwall and raises the bottle and takes a swig. “I am.”

“They're all celebrating you, know you? Sera and the Iron Bull are reciting dirty limericks somewhere.” Blackwall arches a brow. “You don't seem very happy about this.”

“I am,” he says again. “I _am_. It's just…”

“It was too easy?” the man guesses.

He shrugs. “I mean, I can't call any of this easy—not when I had to leap through time to get to this point. But that last part? It was no Archdemon."

"That's for sure."

"I had a harder time keeping Leliana away from my nug.”

Blackwall nods. “That woman does like her nugs. Maybe sometimes things just work out.”

Considering his words, Mahanon nods. “Yeah, maybe sometimes it does. It's about time something worked in my favour. Thanks, Blackwall.”

Suddenly, a warning bell rings out in the distance and a wave of panic sweep across the encampment. Blackwall scowls. “Or maybe sometimes you just speak too soon, Herald.”

Handing Nugget and his drink off to a passerby to bring to the chantry, he follows the Warden to the gate where his advisors are standing, trying to relay orders to their people.

“Cullen, what's going on?”

“There's an unknown force approaching us!” the commander reports.

Mahanon glances over at Blackwall and frowns. “I will never complain about anything ever again. Promise.”

“That might be for the best,” the Warden mutters.

Abruptly, something starts banging on the gates. “I can’t come in if you don’t open!” comes a boy’s voice.

Quickly flinging the wooden doors open, he looks around to see a templar stumbling forward before dying at his feet, revealing a young man in a large bucket hat. Frowning, Mahanon draws his daggers and asks, “Who are you?”

“I’m Cole,” the boy says, “and that’s the Elder One. Him and his Red Templars are here to hurt you, but I guess you already know that. I’m here because I want to help.”

Brows furrowing, he studies the boy. Although physically, he looks like a tall, lanky human, something about his eyes and mannerism seem off. There’s a gasp beside him, drawing his attention away from Cole. Looking up the mountain side, he sees a large darkspawn-like creature standing there with a human at his side. “Is there something you’d like to share, Cullen?” he asks.

“I know that man. That’s Samson, but what’s he doing here?” Cullen mutters to himself.

“I don’t think we have any choice but to fight. Go rally the mages and your troops,” Mahanon orders. “Cole, you said you wanted to help, right? Go with Cassandra and see what you can do.”

Cassandra nods and gestures for the boy to follow.

By then, the rest of the group have gathered around and are looking to him for an explanation. Mahanon sheathes his blades and runs a hand through his hair. “Dorian, Sera, how much have you had to drink?”

Dorian makes a face. “Not nearly enough for this nonsense.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Sera says.

“Good, you two and Warden Blackwall will come with me,” Mahanon tells them. “Bull, you and your Chargers can join us in the front. The rest of you try to get everyone to the chantry.”

The group breaks and he motions for the Chargers to help with the first trebuchet while he leads his team over to the other one further down the bank. On the way, he hears someone calling for him and sees the blacksmith trying to get past a fallen stack of crates. “A little help, please?”

Sera immediately has a glass bottle in her hand but Mahanon stops her. “Is that going to take the whole building down?”

She arches a brow. “Maybe. Why?”

“Hold onto it. I have an idea,” he says, motioning for Blackwall to take care of the crates.

“Yes, never mind all the potential shrapnel you could send flying at us,” Dorian simpers as Blackwall helps Harritt move the crate.

Sera scoffs. “Hey, how about you suck it, Dorian?”

Letting out a surprised laugh, the mage shakes his head and turns to him. “And here I thought _you_ were the most charming elf in the south.”

“What Sera said,” he returns.

With the doorway cleared, the blacksmith thanks them and they continue on their way. Blackwall immediately engages the Red Templars skulking around the trebuchet while he gestures to Sera. “Give me your bottles—anything that'll explode!”

The archer pulls out bottle after bottle seemingly out of nowhere before announcing, “I'm keeping a few. Need it for the fight, yeah?”

Mahanon arches a brow at the small pile of glass bottles in his arm and nods. “Sure, go have fun.”

Grinning, she runs off to join Blackwall while Dorian gives him an equally baffled look. “We can explore this particular mystery later,” the mage says. “Hurry. I'll cover you.”

He nods and sneaks towards the trebuchet, loading all the bottles into the sling. “Help me aim this towards the mountain to the left,” Mahanon calls to the soldiers manning the station.

Slowly, the trebuchet rotates until it locks into place. “Ready, Herald!”

Just then, more Red Templars approach them. The soldiers quickly join the battle while he runs to the crank and begins cranking. With each rotation, he can feel the structure tighten. Behind him, the other three continue defending his position.

Finally, the crank comes to a halt and clicks into place. He glances over one last time at the sling, loaded with rocks and questionable bottles, and calls out, “Firing!”

Releasing the crank, they watch the payload go flying towards the mountain.

Suddenly, a large plume of flame rise up from the mountainside. “Sera, you wanted to throw this at a _cabin_?” he mutters incredulously.

A rumbling emerges from the mountain and he watches as snow begin rolling down the slope towards the army. The avalanche quickly overtakes the Red Templars, smothering their torches and magic.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he stands up. “Is that it?”

“Kaffas, Mahanon!”

He's yanked back by the jacket as a dragon swoops down, destroying the trebuchet with its fire breath. Eyes wide, Mahanon scrambles back through the snow until he's pressed up again Dorian's leg.

As the wood burns and crumbles to the ground and the dragon turns around for another attack, the only word that comes to him is “ _Fuck_.”

\--

The sudden crackle his hand gives off startles him awake. Letting out a gasp, he opens his eyes to a faint green glow to his side. Groaning, he attempts to sit up to get away from the cold surface only to stop as the pain catches up.

Letting out a long, silent string of curses, Mahanon curls up and waits for the wave of pain to pass. When it doesn’t, he manages to find an unbroken potion bottle to down and gives himself to the count of five before forcing himself onto his feet.

Once up, he takes a deep breath and tries to assess the damage again. With some of his minor injuries cleared, he quickly comes to the conclusion that his right arm is still thoroughly dislocated and out of commission from being thrown against the trebuchet earlier. There’s a deep throbbing in his right hip that runs down the length of his thigh, and for all he knows, his ribs have rearranged themselves in his chest.

Still.

Not dead.

With his left hand to the wall, he slowly guides himself down the tunnel, lit faintly by the mark crackling on his hand—an anchor, according to the Elder One. Mahanon shudders, thinking back to the darkspawn-hybrid of a magister and how easily he’d been hoisted in the air and tossed aside.

Whatever this Corypheus did to the anchor, it seems to have destabilized it.

Rounding a bend, Mahanon ignores the pain in his back and stands a little straighter and narrows his eyes as he catches what appears to be a room at the end of the tunnel. He presses on and breathes a sigh of relief when he notices a draft and light coming from up ahead.

His relief is quickly cut short when he sees the robes and elongated teeth of a pair of despair demons. Swallowing hard, flexes his left hand, uncertain if it’s still capable of holding a dagger properly.

Sensing him, the demons perk up and fly at him, shrieking.

Mahanon closes his eyes and tries his best to shield himself.

He feels something in his hand tear open followed by a sudden green blast. Falling backwards, when he opens his eyes again, the demons are gone. Frowning, he takes a closer look at the mark to see the green light inside shifting restlessly. “That’s probably not good,” he sighs before struggling back up onto his feet and heading for the exit.

The Inquisition need to know about this Corypheus and all he claims to be.

At the sight of the blizzard and howling winds, Mahanon looks skyward and scowls. “Elgar’nan. Why couldn’t they hold the conclave somewhere warmer?”

Spotting a broken wagon and the remnants of a fire in the distance, he braces himself the best he can before stepping out into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Blackwall avoiding eye contact intensifies.)
> 
> I haven't been able to take the Corypheus cutscene seriously since that yeet meme came out.


	9. Interlude

“I'm not pacing.”

Varric arches a brow. “Right. Definitely not. You're just walking briskly in the same circle over and over again. Look at the ground, Sparkler, you're digging yourself a trench in here with your not-pacing.” When he doesn't respond, the dwarf sighs, “At least put the nug down.”

Finally stopping, Dorian looks down at the nug who doesn't appear any worse for wear or in any way affected by the events that just transpired.

It's been _hours_ since Mahanon left them in the chantry to escape. Hours since he passed Dorian the nug and asked him to look after it. Hours for Dorian to stew in his own worry.

There was a rumbling that could be felt after they reached the other side of the mountain, but then the blizzard started soon after and Leliana's scouts didn't dare venture back towards Haven.

Not even to go find the supposed Herald of Andraste.

“Venhedis! That stupid ridiculous elf with his recklessness and Inquisition,” he mutters for the umpteenth time that night.

In his arms, Nugget makes a noise and shifts to be held more snugly.

He does his best to not shudder at the thought of those little hand-feet clinging onto his arm.

“You're doing it again, Sparkler.”

Dorian looks down to see that his feet have indeed started walking without his consent again. It seems ridiculous to him that six years ago, he was so reluctant to tear himself away from that First Day party to go rescue the elf, and now, despite his willingness, he's stuck here in a tent with a nug and a dwarf.

Forcing himself to come to a halt, he takes a deep breath and briefly considers pulling out Alexius’ amulet before shaking his head and turning his attention to Nugget. “What's so good about you anyway? Aren't you a little too used to being handled? I'm surprised you haven't been picked off and eaten by a dwarf already.”

“Hey now, no need to tell the little guy that. He doesn't need to know how edible he is,” Varric protests. “You can just say you're worried.”

Turning his head, he arches a brow and scoffs. “Worried? I've seen that elf lose his own weight in blood and still fight off bounty hunters the next day. Perhaps I am worried that he'll have fought off this Elder One and I'll have stayed for naught.”

Varric wordlessly levels him with the most skeptical stare he's ever seen.

It doesn't even take a minute for him to crack. “He doesn't even wear _shoes_!”

“Hang on, are you talking about the nug or the nug wrangler?”

Brows furrowing, he opens and shuts his mouth a few times before settling on, “Both! This is your fault, Varric, for pointing out nug feet to me.”

Nugget looks up and snuffles at him.

“Yes, I'm talking about you. You cost me five crowns,” he says back at the creature. “Why do you even have creepy little finger toes?”

“All the better to grab bugs with, probably,” Varric points out wriggling his own fingers.

Dorian nearly drops the nug when he suddenly notices a blip of magic not too far away and freezes.

“Sparkler?”

“Hold onto this for me,” he says before shivering at the sudden absence of warmth and taking the nug back. “No, never mind, I'll never hear the end of it if I come back and find a half-eaten nug.”

Varric holds a hand to his chest. “Sparkler, I'm hurt. Even _I_ wouldn't eat the Herald's holy nug. You can just admit you're freezing your toesies off with your worry-pacing.”

“Not a word about my toesies or any of this to anyone, dwarf,” he says with a pointed look.

“Yes, ser. Not a one,” Varric promises, pretending to seal his mouth shut.

“Good.” Walking to the flap of the tent, he peers out to see the blizzard dying down. Glancing over towards the narrow passage they came from, he sees nothing but snow upon more snow, but convinced he felt something just now, he looks around to see if any of the other mages noticed.

Before long, Solas, Vivienne, and Fiona all step out and exchange uncertain glances. They all look at the elven mage who nods in affirmation. “That was the Herald's mark.”

“So I gathered. We should probably go look for him,” Dorian mentions with practiced nonchalance.

“An excellent idea, darling. Being out on that mountain can't be doing him any good,” Vivienne says in what he can only assume to be reluctant agreement. She reminds him of home and he hasn't decided on how that makes him feel yet.

Walking over to a nearby tent, Solas lifts the flap to call on the advisors but the only thing Dorian registers is that the elf's feet are also partially exposed until Cullen comes charging out. “The Herald’s alive? Where is he?”

The outburst seems to spark a wave of activity across their makeshift encampment as people start poking their heads out their tents and whispering reverently amongst themselves.

The Herald?

Alive?

After facing down an Archdemon?

The Herald of Andraste?

Within moments, the rest of the companions Mahanon had wrangled together come out to join them. “He made it? Well, what are we waiting for? A frozen Herald’s funny and all but we want him alive, yeah?” Sera urges, echoing his thoughts.

“I could feel the mark but could not pinpoint its location. It would be foolish for us to venture out blindly,” Solas reasons.

“If he was out in that blizzard, he might not be able do whatever you felt again,” Cassandra points out. “Leliana, do you have any scouts that can go find him?”

The spymaster frowns. “Not enough to cover all that ground, I'm afraid.”

“We have to do _something_ ,” Josephine cries.

“But we can't afford to lose more people on this mountain,” Cullen says, running a hand through his hair.

Watching the advisors, Dorian shakes his head and mutters, “Vishante kaffas, he's going die while they're still trying to make up their minds.”

“Maybe I can go up there with my men and get him,” the Iron Bull offers.

“No, don't give them more options, that'll only confuse them more,” he hisses.

Suddenly, as if annoyed at their indecision, there's another flare of magic, even closer this time.

Solas immediately starts marching away. “I think I know where he is. Commander, come with me.”

Finally spurred into action, the advisors race after the elf, leaving the rest of the group behind. “And we'll just wait here, I suppose... Well, that was exhilarating,” Dorian says a little breathlessly. After a pause, he asks, “So what do you southerners normally do while you're waiting for someone to be found?”

Next to him, Varric shrugs. “Last time I was looking for Hawke, me and Broody got lost and ended up playing cards to pass the time until Hawke found us.”

Blackwall and Sera exchange glances before asking, “Got a deck on you, Varric?”

The Chargers end up joining in and they get four rounds in before a wave of murmurs catches their attention. Quickly going out to join the crowd, they watch as the advisors return with the Herald of Andraste in the commander's arm, unconscious but alive.

Dorian's shoulders sag in relief as they rush him to the healer's tent. There's a sudden hand on his shoulder and he turns to see the Iron Bull gesture back to the tent where they'd been playing cards just a minute ago. “C'mon, the healer's tent is already overcrowded and there's no point in standing around freezing your toesies off.”

He snaps his jaw shut with an audible click as he glares at the qunari, remembering that the Chargers were in the next tent over. “I will take my winnings in candied dates and wool socks for my toesies, thank you.”

\--

They play another round and a half when Dorian notices how empty his arms feel and suddenly leaps to his feet. “Kaffas, where's the nug?”

“Don't look at me,” Varric immediately says, putting his hands up.

Krem leans over and calls out, “He's got a pair of tens, Chief!”

Blackwall grumbles and throws his cards down. “I fold.”

“Hey, and here I thought Wardens were supposed to be honourable,” Varric protests.

Throwing his cards down, he waves at them to continue without him. “Sera, don't forget you owe me a drink.”

She blows him a raspberry.

Huffing, Dorian takes his leave and starts walking around their camp, blatantly ignoring the glares sent his way while keeping an eye out for the nug.

By the end of his second round, new rumours of him being a spy and in league with the Elder One have sprung up. Rolling his eyes, he walks over to the healer's tent and pokes his head in and sees the nug hopping around and hisses, “Nugget, get back here!”

To his surprise, the nug responds and turns around at his name. Before he can hop back over, Leliana scoops him up and coos, “Aww, you just want to see how your master is doing, don't you?”

Dorian winces, imaging what kind of face Mahanon would've made at being called anything's master. Looking around the tent, he sees Vivienne to the side, mixing together a potion of some kind. By the Herald is Solas to one side and several healers on the other, all tending to a different limb.

The anchor is emitting an eerie green glow with the faint sound of crackling, and he doesn't know what to make of it except that it's probably a bad thing. Beyond the mark, the rest of the elf looks equally worse for wear.

With dark circles under his eyes, highlighted by his ashen face, he lies on the cot piled high with furs. But even from the entrance, Dorian can see him shivering.

“How bad is it?” he asks, retrieving the nug from the spymaster.

Leliana shakes her head. “Bad. A dislocated arm and probably a couple of broken ribs under all those bruises and more we can't see until he wakes up. But he'll live. And we're not sure how but he'll get to keep all his fingers and toes.”

“It must've been Andraste protecting her chosen,” one of the healers says with reverence, quickly muttering a prayer to herself.

“Or he got very lucky,” Vivienne points out, bringing her potion over to one of the healers. “Give this to the Herald and make sure he drinks it all. It'll warm him up.”

They're probably not giving Mahanon enough credit for his own survival, but with all that's happened today, Dorian hardly has enough energy to defend the elf's honour. At this point he wants nothing more than to slink off somewhere with a bottle of brandy and sleep until spring.

Suddenly, there's coughing from the cot and the elf tries to sit up and lets out a long string of very vulgar sounding words, scaring the healers back. For a moment, his eyes flash dangerously before he notices the familiar faces around him and asks unhappily, “Fenhedis, what did you just put in my mouth?”

Dorian quickly covers his mouth to hide his grin.

“Just a potion to warm you up, my dear. You look awful,” Vivienne says easily. “Too much kick?”

Mahanon spares her a weak glare before looking around and asking, “Where are we?”

“You're at the Inquisition's camp,” Leliana tells him. “We're safe. For now.”

Relaxing a little, Mahanon tries to sit up again but when he tries to put weight on his arms, he quickly stops, hissing in pain. “Why are--” his eyes widen. “What happened to Corypheus?”

Everyone in the tent looks to one another before Leliana asks, frowning, “Who is Corypheus?”

\--

They stay for a few days to give the injured rest, but with every passing day, the tension continued to grow between those in charge until everything boiled over into song.

Walking over to the tent Mahanon is resting in, he puts the nug down and watches it hop over and soon hears, “What are you doing here, Nugget? Did you run away from Dorian again?”

“Excuse you, he has never run from me,” he says, entering and crossing his arms. “We are the best of friends.”

Mahanon looks up and scoffs, clearly feeling better. “Is that so?” Picking the nug up with his good arm, he sits down on his cot. “We're leaving tomorrow morning.”

Dorian arches a brow. “Oh?”

“Solas thinks there might a place for us not too far away from here.”

Running a hand over his moustache, he reminds himself that he'll have to find that tin of wax to fix it up. “Is that what he pulled you away for?”

Mahanon nods. “Yes, among other things.”

With the way his frown deepens, Dorian decides not to press the matter for now.

“And this place. Did he see this in one of his dreams or is it a place he passed and possibly slept in during one of his apostate hobo treks?” he asks instead.

A shrug. “I'm not sure. Anything's better than staying here.”

Grinning, he asks, “Don't want your followers singing to you again, Your Holiness?” Mahanon makes a face and he bursts into laughter. “Such a ridiculous elf. I've never seen you so flustered, and I've seen you on the brink of death from blood loss and the cold.”

“You missed my execution in the last world,” Mahanon points out.

With a dismissive wave, Dorian says, “Please, you probably didn't even bat a single pretty eyelash. I will admit, the southern masses singing to a Dalish elf is the single most baffling thing I've seen in here yet--and we travelled through time.”

Mahanon glances towards the exit and mutters, “Falon’din take me, let's hope there's no repeat performance. I keep telling them I don't believe in their Maker or their Chantry, that it was Mythal I asked for protection, not Andraste, but they just do this thing where they stare through me and start singing anyway. I might as well be shouting at the sky.” A sigh. “At least the advisors aren't arguing anymore.” Then looking over, he asks, “How are you, Dorian? How are you finding” he makes a sweeping gesture.

“What is” he asks, repeating the gesture. “This so called Inquisition? It's alright, I suppose. I am simultaneously more and less impressed now that you've _stupidly_ faced down an Archdemon and supposed darkspawn magister on your own, and also generally displeased at the choice of setting,” he replies, shivering as if to further press his point.

Rubbing the tips of his ears with stiff fingers, Mahanon casts his eyes down pensively.

It was bad enough making the trek in a large group, Dorian can only imagine what a treacherous journey it was, hiking down the mountain in a blizzard while covered in injuries, lost and alone.

Only to have a bunch of people sing Chantry songs at him.

Eventually, the elf nods in agreement. “I could've done with somewhere warmer as well. Maybe I should grow my hair out.”

“Why did you cut it? Was it getting tangled in branches while you frolicked through the woods?” Dorian asks.

With a chuckle, Mahanon tells him, “That, and our Second accidentally shot some spell my way. I'm sure you know how burnt hair smells.”

Dorian wrinkles his nose at the memory. “Yes, but not from personal experience, mind you.”

“Of course not, Lord Pavus. I would never insinuate such a thing,” the elf deadpans. Then in a quieter voice, he asks, “Hey, Dorian?”

“What is it?”

“Thank you for staying.”

Blinking, he replies, “Well, it was either come help or wait for the world to end in the comfort of my house, but you're welcome. For what it's worth, if I have to entrust the task if saving the world to someone, it might as well be you.”

Mahanon glances up, golden eyes dark and unreadable. “Do you think we can change the future we saw?”

“Are you worried?” he asks, moving to stand in front of the elf. “I think we've already deviated from that future. For better or for worse, only time will tell.”

“You said you went into a different future after? The one with the grape peeling?”

He huffs. “Fixated on that, aren't you?”

“What did that future look like?” the elf asks.

Looking up in thought, he shrugs. “The sky was fixed for one. Fruits were abundant, but I would suggest against making Redcliffe your headquarters. Randomly being sent through time isn't ideal and…” Dorian trails off, stopping himself before he can describe his thoughts on _their_ bed.

Arching a brow, Mahanon gestures for him to continue. “And?”

“And Fereldan decor is so tacky,” he finishes with a shrug, resolved to not give the events of that future any further thought.

Mahanon snickers and if he happens to find it a little endearing, that's no one's business but his own.

“So, this sanctuary Solas knows of, do you have any idea where it is?” Dorian asks.

“Yes, it’s to the north. I think he called it _Skyhold_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue Inquisition theme music.
> 
> Last chapter of the year! Let's hope next year's a good one


	10. Chapter 10

Walking down another dilapidated hallway, Mahanon taps his cheek in thought. Didn't he already walk down this way earlier? Maybe he should've brought Varric along for this stone sense dwarves are supposed to have.

Somewhere below him, he can hear disappointed nobles complaining about the state of the ancient structure and the lack of gold gilded beds and jewelled basins. He'd run away the first chance he got and left the people for Josephine to deal with.

Other than the nobles and sending dream-Haven into disarray when he realized he was unconscious, everything has been relatively peaceful at Skyhold.

He still hasn't gone by to see Solas after that little stint, but that can wait as far as he's concerned.

Continuing down the hall, he eventually finds another forgotten stairwell up and figures it'd be best to find a vantage point to get his bearings.

“Old voices. Ancient. Singing songs lost, forgotten, harmonizing with the new. The halls echo with hope. Can you hear it too?”

Yelping, Mahanon scrambles back to see Cole crouching where he'd been a moment ago. Heart hammering in his chest, he wonders how long it would take people to find his body if he were to die up here. “No? I can't hear anything like that. I don't even know where I am. How did you find me?”

“I listened,” the boys says.

He blinks and cocks his head to the side. Out of all his companions, Cole easily takes the top spot for most confusing. Solas called him a spirit and Vivienne a demon, but he's not convinced the boy fits either category—too well meaning. Too human. Too _awkward_. “Well, it's a good thing you found me. Can you help me find a way out?”

“Out?”

“Ah, no, I should be more specific. How about we go find Varric? I think his surprise guest is arriving today,” he suggests.

Cole nods eagerly. “I can help!”

Following the boy back down the way he came, Mahanon clears his throat and asks, “So, Cole, this thing you can do. I know you showed me the other day, but what is it? Are you reading people’s minds or something?”

“I'm listening and sometimes I can see.”

He arches a brow. “See their thoughts?”

“No, their hurt.”

“Hurt?”

Cole nods, his hat flopping back and forth at the motion. “Green upon scars upon blood and chains. Suledin. Even if they don't see, I am me. Suledin—”

“I see what you mean,” he cuts the other off. Although reluctant, his curiosity forces him to ask, “That’s what you see from me then?”

“You hurt a lot,” the boy replies matter-of-factly, his voice light and conversational. “The mark makes it bright and sharp and hard to see, but when you get beyond that, everything is in knots. Going home to a home in search of a home.”

He rubs the back of his neck, wondering how to put an end to this session. “Yeah, that one is a bit complicated.”

“I’ve made it worse,” Cole says, coming to a halt, frowning and brows knit in concentration. “I can’t see it well enough to untangle it. I’m sorry. I wanted to help.”

Mahanon shakes his head and continues walking. “No, it’s fine. It’s a huge mess. I know. You’re helping me by taking me to Varric. That’s plenty.” Giving it a little more thought, he adds, “Maybe Solas would have a better idea on how you can help?”

“Okay!”

“No, wait—” Turning back to where Cole had been a moment ago, he finds himself alone and sighs, “But I’m still stuck.”

It takes a while of wandering before he eventually comes across a faint glow in one of the walls. Poking his head out, he finds himself behind Vivienne's makeshift parlour and climbs down the scaffolding as quietly as he can.

Before he can tiptoe past her, however, she glances up from her book and frowns. “I hope you're not planning on seeing anyone covered in all that dust, my dear.”

“I got a bit lost up there,” he tries to explain, feeling like a child caught by his Keeper with his finger in the honey jar. “I'm going to go change now.”

“Don't forget to get that cobweb out of your hair,” she calls after him as he jogs over to the stairs. “You _are_ the Inquisitor now.”

Not by choice, he doesn't reply.

“I will,” Mahanon says instead before disappearing. Instead of going downstairs, he slips one of his gloves off and combs his fingers through his hair and dusts himself off the best he can before jogging over to the library to where Dorian's set up his alcove.

Seeing him approach, the mage arches a brow and puts down his book. “Did you get sent through time again? You look like you've collected a decade's worth of dust.”

“It's probably more like a century’s worth,” he says, dipping his head. “Are there still cobwebs in my hair?”

Dorian makes a noise of disgust and starts picking at his hair. “There most certainly are. Have you considered taking a bath?”

He shrugs. “Later, maybe.” Like when Josephine inevitably catches him and gets someone to draw one up for him. “I have to go meet Varric now.”

Rolling his eyes, the mage grumbles, “‘Later, maybe,’ he says. Where did you even go?”

Pointing at the ceiling, Mahanon replies, “Up there somewhere. I was with Cole for a while until I wasn't.”

“I hate that I understood that,” the man mutters. “There. Cobwebs gone. Now if you will excuse me, I need to go wash my hands. At least wash your face and change into a new shirt. You look like you stole the clothes off a corpse.”

“Yes, ser, right away, ser,” he answers with a mock-salute before heading into his temporary room to throw on a new shirt.

Without bothering to put on a fresh pair of pants, he spares a moment to run over to the basin to wash his face and run a hand through his hair again. Already late despite not having made an appointment, he runs to the battlements overlooking the tavern, which had been put up in record time compared to the rest of the fortress.

Making it to the top of the stairs, he sees Varric talking to someone and slows his pace before joining them. “I hope I didn't make you wait too long.”

Varric turns around and smiles, happier than Mahanon's ever seen him—granted, they didn't have very much to be happy about. “Inquisitor! Don’t worry, we were just chatting. Come meet the Champion of Kirkwall!”

They both make a face at their respective titles.

The man smiles a little and steps forward. “I don't go by that much anymore. Garrett Hawke.”

In his head, he's already composing a letter to his cousin to gloat about meeting her favourite human hero. Although he’s not imposing like Cassandra or flashy like Dorian, there's certainly an air about him that seems to draw people in.

No wonder he was the protagonist in Varric's book.

“Mahanon,” he returns, proud that he retained his ability to speak. “You can have both of my titles for free if you want.”

Hawke chuckles. “You can keep them. I've heard a lot about you from Varric. A Dalish elf as the Herald of Andraste and now the Inquisitor too, huh?”

He shrugs. “I didn't have much say in the matter.”

“No, that seems to be a trend with titles,” Hawke agrees. “I think they secretly do it by raffle.”

“It’s true. I used to be part of the committee,” Varric jokes. “You two got off easy with ‘Champion’ and ‘Inquisitor’.”

Sparing the dwarf a smile, Mahanon asks, “So Varric says you've come across Corypheus before?”

A frown spreads on both men's faces. “We didn't just come across him, we killed him pretty thoroughly—stabbed him multiple times and went through his pockets and everything. What did we get again, Varric?”

“We took his robe and sold it, and then we took his necklace and sold that too,” Varric tells him. “We adventured the hell out of that one.”

“Ah, yes, adventuring. Those were simpler days,” Hawke mutters with a nod. “So, yes, we definitely killed him.”

Mahanon arches a brow. “He didn't have an orb with him or anything? Didn't talk down to people?”

Hawke runs a hand through his beard in thought and he wonders briefly if it's a human trait to touch their facial hair. “He did. Literally. Because he was a giant darkspawn and he wasn’t about to kneel down to see eye to eye, but he wasn't particularly loquacious when we met him.”

“No, it was mostly just a wheezy sort of 'Dumat! Dumat!’” Varric mimics.

Blinking, he thinks back to his run-in with the darkspawn-magister. “That’s very different from my encounter.”

“I'm starting to wonder if the Wardens locked because he couldn’t be killed. Maker, what did we release into Thedas?” Hawke says, his voice half a whisper.

Varric frowns. “Hey now, we didn’t have much of a choice what with the Carta after you and all that. And like you said, we killed him as thoroughly as possible.”

“So what? We kill him twice as hard this time?” the mage asks. “How do you kill something beyond dead?”

“Broody could probably show you,” the dwarf jokes. “Where is he anyway?”

Mahanon glances from one man to the next, trying to recall who was who in the _Tales of the Champion_.

Fenris, his mind supplies, the one Ellana read in that horrible character voice.

He’ll have to apologize on behalf of his cousin if he ever meets the elf.

Hawke rubs the back of his neck with a sigh. “Not here? Fenris will probably kill me twice over when he catches up to me.”

Taking a surprised step back, Varric asks, “You didn't leave without saying a word, did you?”

Eyes widening, Hawke quickly protests, “No! Maker, he'd feed my remains to my own dog if I did that. We talked and I convinced him to give me a head start. This red lyrium business can't be safe for him. I was sort of hoping this will all be sorted by the time he gets here.”

After studying his friend for a long moment, Varric relaxes a little and says, “I'm surprised you got here as fast as you did. Must've been hard finding the way while bawling your eyes out the whole time.”

Hawke tosses his head back and laughs. It makes him look younger, vibrant, and bright, and Mahanon suddenly feels like he’s being doused in sunlight. “How’d you know? I was in tears the second I closed the door—could hardly tell the blade end from the staff end.”

“I change my mind. It’s a miracle you made it here at all, Hawke.” Varric looks over and smiles ruefully. “So I guess we're not actually any closer to solving this. Sorry, Freckles.”

“Well, hang on, that's not entirely true. You didn't call me here just for my excellent sense of dramatic timing and good hair. I may have a lead with the Grey Wardens. Apparently they all started hearing the Calling at once around the same time the sky tore open,” Hawke says.

“Even Junior?”

Nodding, the mage frowns. “I had Aveline send him away from this mess for the time being.”

“Oof, I bet he loved that.”

A shrug. “Yeah, but he doesn't stand a chance against Aveline.”

Varric chuckles. “She could probably send him flying across the Waking Sea just by flexing. But this Warden thing, it sounds bad.”

Mahanon glances towards the stables and asks, “Do you think Blackwall's affected by this?”

“You should probably check in with him,” Hawke suggests. “I've got a contact on the inside who isn't my brother. Remember Stroud?”

“The beardy Orlesian that initiated Junior?”

Hawke nods. “Yeah, him. We've been in contact. He's holed up somewhere in Crestwood right now. It'd be a good idea to meet up with him and find out what's happening as soon as possible.”

“That's a good idea,” Mahanon says. “I'll let the others know and check on Blackwall. We'll be ready to leave by morning.”

“Good idea,” Varric says. “We'll be in the tavern. Oh, and if you see the Seeker, tell her I left this place and she’ll never see me again.”

He arches a brow and gives a lopsided smile. “How about I don’t mention you at all and hope she leaves you alone?”

A shrug. “That works too.”

As he leaves the battlements, he hears Hawke mutter, “I _knew_ he was bound to go mwa-ha-ha. I just didn't think it'd be _after_ we killed him.”

“What's done is done. All we can do is kill him again,” Varric consoles him. “Have you checked out the tavern? Man, if you thought the Hanged Man had the worst ale in Thedas, you're in for a surprise.”

“Really? I've seen the barkeep wring out towels into the pints there.”

“Oh no, I paid Edwina to do that.”

\--

It's a relief when they finally emerge from the flooded caves, so much so that he doesn't even mind having to close a rift right in front of the cave. “Are you alright, Cole?” he asks quietly, remembering the piles and piles of waterlogged skeletons.

“They wanted to go home but it was home for the nugs,” the boy says lightly.

He nods slowly. “I'll take that as a yes.”

As they walk back towards Caer Bronach, he can feel Solas’ stare on him despite subtly trying to hide around Cassandra like a pillar.

This must be from their little stint earlier at Skyhold when Solas tried to reach out to him in the Fade. They still haven't spoken since the incident. Remembering the visions he created for himself, he walks a little faster, not wanting to discuss it with anyone—least of all the person who knocked him unconscious.

“Inquisitor, are you alright?” Solas eventually catches up and asks quietly in Elven.

Mahanon shrugs, unsure if the question was pertaining to their trip to the Fade or the Flooded Caves, and answers a little tersely, “I’m fine. We can discuss this later, but let's just keep going.”

Although he doesn’t look convinced, the elf nods and doesn’t bring the topic up again.

He lets out a sigh of relief as Caer Bronach comes into view. “Your Worship, the sky's been clear since you fixed the rift in the lake,” Charter reports.

“It's not over yet,” he sighs as the rest of his companions gather around them. “Cole and Solas, go take a break. Blackwall and Dorian, come with me to go find Varric and Hawke. Bull, there's a sister who will need help gathering bodies in Old Crestwood. Maybe you can help her. Cassandra, how are you holding up?”

“I can keep going, Inquisitor,” she says, looking no worse for wear. As far as he's concerned, Cassandra is indestructible and it's a miracle he and Hawke managed to talk her down from tearing Varric apart.

Mahanon nods. “Sera went to follow up on a lead from one her friends or something. Can you go with Vivienne and bring the mayor in for questioning?”

The group splits up and he takes his team further inland to the little cave Hawke had marked on his map.

It's an inconspicuous cave surrounded by druffalo and wolves. After fending off a pack, they run into the cave only to find a sword pointed at them.

“State your name and purpose.”

Recognizing the Grey Warden uniform, Mahanon raises his hands in surrender. “Warden Stroud? We're here with Hawke.”

From the back of the cave, he hears Varric call out, “Freckles, is that you? Good timing. This shit's even crazier than we thought.”

\--

Returning to Skyhold to update the advisors before making another trip over to the Western Approach, Mahanon crouches down in the garden to play with Nugget when a messenger approaches him. “Your Worship? Lord Pavus asked to see you in the library.”

“That sounds ominous,” he mutters, picking his nug up. “Thank you. I’ll go find him.”

Crossing the great hall and up the stairs to the library, he finds Dorian pacing about his nook with pieces of paper gripped tightly in his hands.

“Dorian? Did something happen?”

At the sound of his voice, the man's shoulders sag and he shakes his head. “It's Felix,” he says, the faintest quiver in his voice.

His heart drops and he slowly shakes his head, glancing around the library. From above, although out of sight, he knows that too many prying ears are listening to a conversation he'd rather keep private. Doing his best to ignore the tightening in his throat, he gestures for the stairs. “Not here.”

Immediately understanding, Dorian nods and follows him down into the vault where he puts Nugget down and walks over to the room where Josephine kept the reserves, returning with two bottles of Tevinter wine that the ambassador had described to him as “finely aged and highly valuable”.

She'll have to forgive him this transgression.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” Dorian mutters, accepting one of the bottles. Popping the cork with practiced ease, he takes a long drink before leaning against the large painting hanging off the wall.

Joining him, he takes a little longer with getting the bottle open but eventually manages and takes a swig. “What's happened?” he manages to ask, trying to feign ignorance just a little longer.

“Felix,” Dorian says, pausing to steady his voice. “The blight finally caught up to him.”

“So quickly?”

The man shrugs. “It was mostly Alexius’ magic keeping him alive, and after putting it off for six years...this was bound to happen sooner or later. Apparently after he returned, he stood before the Magisterium and told them about you and all the good you're doing. No news on the reaction, but that's not hard to imagine.”

Neither of them say anything, unable to crack a joke in the face of such dire news.

Dorian clears his throat. “He straightened out his estate and sent us a few helpful things, you know? Books for research and this,” he pulls out a comb from his pocket, “is for you. I used to joke about him writing you into his will and at some point, he started answering, 'Maybe I will, Dorian.’ I guess he really went and did it.”

Taking the comb, he takes a shuddering breath. “Felix always was as good as his word.”

“He was, wasn't he?” Dorian says quietly into his bottle. “‘Too good for Thedas.’ That's what I used to say to him. If more people were like him, none of this would even be happening.”

Mahanon wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hands. They don't stop. Like floodgates opening, he feels the tears he's been holding back since the Conclave run down his cheek, one after another. Scrubbing at his eyes, he asks, “What will happen to Sanna and the others?”

“They'll be joining the Pavus household in Minrathous. We worked out the details before parting ways at Redcliffe,” the mage tells him, kindly pretending not to notice his tears.

Tilting the bottle up, he takes a long drink and stares at the ground forlornly. “That's good. I'm glad they'll have somewhere to go.”

Dorian arches a brow. “Did you really think Felix, of all people, would just leave them to fend for themselves?”

“No, not at all.” He glances over. “You think so highly of him.”

“Highly may be pushing it,” comes the automatic response.

That manages to work a chuckle out of him. “Don't worry, I won't tell. He always spoke highly about you too.”

A scoff. “Naturally. Did he ever tell you about the time I helped him create an illusion potion to prank a particular...dour acquaintance of ours? The _real_ magic was in the subtlety. Oh, it was magnificent!”

\--

Two empty bottles turn into four and Dorian pushes himself up unsteadily and sniffles loudly. Although his eyes are still dry, the redness rimming them tell another story. “This won't do,” he announces. “I need more alcohol. If you need me, I'm going to be in the tavern until tomorrow.”

“Wait, Dorian,” he calls out, tugging at one of the mage's many belts. The movement jostles the nug in his lap awake and it looks up at him questioningly before settling back down. He hadn’t meant to reach out, but with the wine running through his system, his arm seemed to move on its own. Looking up, he sees the mage waiting for him to voice his request. He blinks tiredly and asks, “Please stay? Just a little longer. I just...I want to remember him with someone a little longer.”

With a strained voice, Dorian sighs and sits back down. “Such calf eyes you make. Very well. Just a little longer then. Don’t blame me if you fall asleep down here.”

Taking his cue, Mahanon leans against the mage. His presence is grounding and he can feel himself being lulled to sleep from the combination of warmth, exhaustion, and alcohol. After a long moment, he quietly confesses, “I never got to return his ring to him. I was only supposed to have it for a month.”

There’s a slight shift. “I thought you sold it with the comb?”

He glances over at the other and shakes his head. “It wasn't mine to sell.”

The mage lets out a soft huff. “The most ridiculous elf. Felix wouldn't have minded.”

“No, probably not,” Mahanon agrees. Head slumping forward, he closes his eyes. “I'm going to miss him.”

Dorian stiffens and even through his wine and sleep addled mind, he can feel a shudder run through the taller man's frame. “...yes, so am I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always find myself apologizing profusely when I get around to 'customizing' Hawke's face because I can never get him to look like he used to in da2


End file.
